When in Rome II: The Lost Children Connection
by XblackcatwidowX
Summary: A year has passed since Harry's return. Voldemort's empire is growing, but Harry remains set on saving the man he knows to be Tom Riddle. When unexpected circumstances lead him back down the rabbit hole of the past, he discovers the world to be a far less forgiving place than he remembers, and Tom is a completely different person from the one he left behind. School's out.
1. Chapter 1: The Final Prologue

**Chapter One: The Final Prologue**

 ***snore* Wha–? It's time to wake up? To come out of hibernation? Excellent. My year break has resulted in nothing but copious amounts of notes and zip proper writing. Hahah… *cries***

 **Anyway, where are my manners? To the new readers, I say that this is a sequel so I recommend going and reading the first part before you pursue this one. If you are really in opposition this suggestion, then perhaps if you ask nicely enough, somebody may fill you in down in the comment section. :)**

 **To the old readers, I say welcome back!**

 **Thank you all for your comments, kudos, favourites and follows during the hiatus (depending on whether you are reading on AO3 or FFN). I received an interesting mix of supportive, entertaining and downright sinister messages (yes, I'm looking at you, BlueJordan09), but all were lovely and I'm sorry that I only replied to a handful of them. I wasn't lying when I said that this would be a busy year… however, thanks to your patience I am successfully a year 12 graduate. *throws confetti***

 **Enough talking. Just a reminder that** ** _:this:_** **is Parseltongue.**

* * *

Quick breaths left Harry's parted lips in puffs of vapour which billowed before his face like drowning clouds. Flexing the stiff fingers on his left hand, Harry tightened his grip on the wand in his right.

His dear wand still bore the ugly, jagged crack splitting it down the middle. A tattooed reminder of the fateful day he and Hermione had found themselves in a new world.

A new world, a place Harry wished he had never found. A place where he had fallen in love. He loathed himself for it. But the matter was beyond his own hands. Love was something beyond his control.

Harry pulled his cloak securely around his body to ward away the winter's chill. Dusk was rolling in, wrapping London in long shadows which stretched along the sidewalks like creeping fingers. It was a gamble to have stepped into the open in the heart of London, the place Voldemort was most active, but a gamble which had to be taken.

Standing by the entrance of a dark alleyway, Harry ducked his head, concealing his wand in the folds of his robes. Naturally, he had cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself – it allowed him more mobility than wearing his Invisibility Cloak would – because there was no telling which Death Eater he might stumble upon.

Harry held his breath as a Muggle shuffled past, taking long drags of a cigarette. She took no notice of him, camouflaged into the bricks behind him, and continued on her way. Harry let loose a breath, slackening his shoulders.

That was when he heard the _click-clack-click-clack_ of little heels thrumming along the pavement.

Eyes narrowing almost comically, Harry lowered his gaze to the ground once more and watched as the pointy pink shoes trotted past his hiding place. Immediately, he slipped out of the alleyway and onto the street, a mere shadow, his footfall silent as he stalked the witch into the silence of evening.

Closer, closer, closer he crept, the stout witch paying no mind to the unsettling quiet which had fallen around them like a stifling shroud. Harry allowed the Disillusionment Charm to melt away with each step, right before seizing the woman by the arm and Apparating away before she could so much as shriek.

They reappeared in a flurry of motion within a circle of trees in the Forest of Dean. As promised, before Harry could so much as blink the witch was hit by a Stunner and slumped to the ground, dirtying her fluffy pink cardigan.

"Cheers," said Harry as Hermione and Ron stepped out from behind the cover of trees.

"No worries," said Ron, and they gathered around to stare down at the incapacitated form of Dolores Umbridge.

After a heartbeat, Harry kneeled by her, hand hovering above her for a moment. He closed his eyes and listened for the tired throbbing of a fragment of a soul.

It stung his scar, and Harry flinched.

"Well?" asked Hermione in a hushed tone of voice.

By way of response, Harry steeled his nerves and reached down to Umbridge's neck, yanking up the chain which was tucked away.

Out came Salazar Slytherin's locket, humming in cold greeting.

Ron swore beneath his breath and Hermione gave a tiny nod of her head. They had been expecting it, ever since they had forced the locket's location out of Mundungus Fletcher with the help of Kreacher.

There was another bitter moment of silence, then finally Harry snapped the chain away from Umbridge's neck and hung it around his own, tucking it away so that it was in contact with his bare chest. The metal was hot and electrified his skin.

The soul of Tom Riddle, speaking to him once more.

 _Harry_. The memory of long, cool fingers on his face. _I never wanted you to be the hero._

With a shudder, Harry straightened, willing the voice away. "We need to leave," he said. "Now."

"You alright with wearing it?" Ron looked at him seriously. "I mean, look what happened with Ginny, when she had the diary–"

"It's fine," Harry snapped unexpectedly, hand shooting up to lay protectively across the locket beneath his robes. He ignored the shock on both his friends' faces and glanced away, jaw tense. "Are we done here?"

Hermione recovered first. "Yes. I'll take us back to–"

Exactly where Hermione was planning on taking them was not revealed.

Overhead there was a crack, as loud as a thunderclap. Black smoke billowed out from seemingly nowhere, casting them in darkness, and a hurricane-like wind knocked the three off their feet, tossing them across the clearing as if they were ragdolls.

Harry flipped along the ground like tumbleweed, before finally finding a hold on the ground. He hung there for dear life, wind streaming through his hair until finally, it died away.

Blinded by the darkness, Harry could barely see as far as his own nose. Gaining his own feet again, he ducked down low, eyes stinging. Hermione and Ron were nowhere near him, and he wouldn't call out for fear of alerting their ambusher.

Scrambling for the locket, a jolt of relief ran up his spine when his fingers found it.

The relief did not last long.

Pain split across his forehead, like nothing he had ever felt before, and Harry fell to his knees with a howl, dropping his wand and clutching at his scar with his free hand.

"Harry!" he heard Hermione's voice distantly but could barely focus on it as the smoke parted before him, cleaving a path which was so clean and bright compared to the black which enveloped him everywhere else.

Once more, Harry's skull threatened to tear apart from the unadulterated agony which he felt, and his eyes screwed shut.

And then suddenly, so suddenly, it all stopped. The pain dissipated, like a dream. Then a clear voice crooned in his ears, low and cold.

" _Harry… Potter_."

A shiver crawled across Harry's skin, raising the hairs on the back of his neck, on his arms.

That voice. A voice he had once known, in an age long passed.

Hardly daring to believe, Harry opened his eyes.

Towering above his kneeling form was Voldemort. Tall, thin, his complexion as white as death. The slitted nose of a serpent, head as smooth as a boiled egg and eyes the colour of fresh blood.

A face so unlike the one that Harry had known. "Tom," he said.

A sneer curled the corner of Voldemort's lipless mouth upwards and he ran his wand along Harry's cheek with a tender viciousness, a motion which set off alarm bells in Harry's head.

"I have been searching long and hard for you, Harry Potter," murmured Voldemort, his gaze sweeping across Harry, committing him to memory.

Slowly, Harry rose to meet him, breath caught in his throat. Voldemort's wand, pressed against his cheekbone, felt like a brand of ownership. Voldemort allowed him the dignity of standing, his eyes glittering rubies.

"And I'm afraid," said Harry, more steadily than he felt, "that you will be searching again."

Voldemort tilted his head to the side, a curious little gesture. "You will not be leaving my sight again, Potter," he said, mellow as a song. "Not until you are dead, and it is your corpse being taken away from me."

Harry knew that Voldemort was merely the shadow of the person he had once been, the schoolboy Harry had fallen for some fifty years ago, but hearing such words come from his mouth still splintered Harry's already fractured heart.

"You have been angry for so long," he said, and it sounded like a plea, "but I understand now. It's me, Tom, I'm here, and I want to help–"

In a movement as swift as a whip, Voldemort had Harry by the throat, crushing his airway between long, pale fingers, like spider legs. Harry choked, eyes bulging, his hands swinging up on reflex to grip Voldemort's arm, grappling to free himself from the stranglehold.

But Voldemort's grip was firm and oxygen deprivation weakened Harry. His struggle rapidly slackened, spots dancing in the corners of his vision, and Voldemort's face was blurring over.

Images of Hermione and Ron surfaced before his eyes. Then there was Luna and Neville, Ginny and the Weasleys, Dumbledore and Sirius and Lupin and his mother and father. The long-ago faces of Peregrine Lestrange, Ignatius Prewett, Margot Greengrass and the boy who had once been known as Tom Riddle.

Harry had never imagined that this would be how he would die. Surrounded by black smoke, asphyxiated in the most Muggle, most intimate manner by Lord Voldemort. With only his memories to comfort him as he spiralled down the bright white tunnel to the unknown.

Then abruptly he was thrown to the ground and he gasped in air, his entire frame shuddering from the shock of yet another near-death experience.

" _Give me the locket_ ," Voldemort hissed and Harry looked up at him, eyes watering.

"Why not kill me and get it yourself?" he wheezed, his fingers scrambling for wherever he had dropped his wand.

Voldemort's face went even whiter, if that was possible, and he kicked Harry in the ribs, sending him tumbling. _:Do not mock me, insolent brat,:_ he spat.

Harry groaned and lifted his head to the sight of his wand, a mere metre ahead of him.

"I know you remember me, Tom," he managed, pushing himself upright once more. He could tell that his ribs were bruised as he did so.

"Do not call me by that name!" Voldemort stalked nearer him and Harry scuttled backwards, closing in on his wand, desperate to put some distance between himself and his enemy.

"It was a long time ago," he pressed. "And things didn't go the way either of us planned. But you have to stop this, you have to _remember_ –"

"How could I not remember?" Voldemort raised his wand, his eyes pulsing madness. "I remember that night all too well, Potter–"

"The night that you _killed_ her."

Hermione, her mouth opening slightly in morbid surprise as her body was engulfed in green light, then nothing. Just an empty shell, lying on the ground, a mockery of the bright witch she had been.

"Yes, I killed her," said Voldemort, and there was no remorse in his voice. "I gave her the opportunity to move – a _gift_ – but she refused, so now she is dead and so is your pathetic father. All to protect you, a perfectly ordinary, interfering, half-blood child."

There was a pause, during which Harry entirely forgot that he was meant to be grabbing his wand and escaping. He shook his head once, a miniscule motion, and said in a low voice, "We aren't talking about the same night. Are we?"

"I did not realise that we had the memories of an abundance of nights at our disposal, Potter," said Voldemort, and there was such hatred in his eyes that Harry wanted to cry.

"Stop playing games," he whispered. "I know that you remember Harry Delacour."

 _Please, Tom, remember me_.

But there was no recognition which sparked on Voldemort's face, and a cruel smile curled his mouth. "Oh dear," he said. "Is that another of your beloved companions who crossed paths with me?"

For the first time since Harry had returned to the future, he thought that he might hate Tom Riddle after all. "Yes." His fingers closed around his wand, hidden from sight behind him, and emotion made his voice tremble painfully. "Yes, he was. Harry Delacour… I didn't know him for long. Only half a year. But he'll always be close to my heart."

"Is this love that you speak of?" Voldemort's pale face hovered there like a skull in the dark, so very mocking.

Harry grimaced. "Yes. And you thought you loved him, too."

Voldemort went silent, disbelief rippling off him like waves.

Harry seized the opportunity. "It was a long time ago. It was during the Christmas of 1944, the same that you produced a dragon Patronus."

Something fragile jolted in Voldemort's gaze, as if that had awoken something in him. His wand remained raised, pointing steadily at Harry, but he made no move to utter a spell.

The locket, hot against Harry's chest, crooned a soulful melody to him. _Keeping talking_ , it seemed to say. _Tell the world our story._

"And it was also during the Christmas of 1944," said Harry, aching, "that you kissed him."

Voldemort's eyes widened a fraction – snagged in Harry's words – and Harry leapt into action. " _Stupefy_!" he shouted, throwing himself to his feet, and the Stunner ricocheted off the shield Voldemort abruptly cast.

But it granted him enough time to spring back into the black smoke around them, blind once more, and he hurtled towards where he had heard Hermione's voice before. "Hermione!" he bellowed in desperation as he ran. "Ron!"

"We're here!" he heard somewhere to his right. He veered sharply, dogging the voices, and he could hear rustling behind him as Voldemort gave chase.

"I am not done with you, Harry Potter!" The outcry echoed all around, ringing sharply in Harry's ears, and he could feel fingers shadowing his cloak, rippling like a banner behind him.

So he took a leap of faith.

Through the air he sailed, his eyes filled with smoke, and the earth seemed to still around him as he flew. Then Harry slammed bodily straight into Ron and Hermione, huddled together in the darkness.

With a crack, Hermione Apparated them away, Voldemort's scream of outrage filling the atmosphere.

* * *

Once safely hidden away inside 12 Grimmauld Place, Hermione and Ron backed Harry into a chair where they could interrogate him.

Harry had almost forgotten what it was like, to have two against one. Despite a whole year passing since he and Hermine had returned, he had grown accustomed to it just being the two of them.

"Did he hurt you?" demanded Hermione, first up. Her bushy hair was a mess, poking around such that it could rival Harry's own, and her skin was blackened from the smoke, as was Ron's.

"You-Know-Who wouldn't hurt him," reasoned Ron, though his tone was sceptical. "I mean, weren't you his school boyfriend or something?"

No matter how many times Ron was told of their adventure in the past, he never seemed able to fully comprehend what had happened. If Harry had been in his best mate's shoes, he would have been the same. The whole story was completely mental, after all.

"But he's tried to hurt Harry in the past," Hermione argued, turning on Ron. "Just look at what happened during the Triwizard Tournament, if you've forgotten. You-Know-Who appears to have no qualms about harming Harry. Maybe he hasn't made the connection yet–"

"There is no connection to be made," croaked Harry, rubbing his reddened throat. He was sure that there were fingerprints there.

"You–" Hermione frowned, whipping her head around to stare at Harry. "What did you say?"

"There is no connection to be made," repeated Harry, his hands clenching into fists on his lap. He was unable to make eye contact with either of them when he spoke. "Vol–"

"Don't say his name!" Ron hissed, for the millionth time.

" _You-Know-Who_ ," snapped Harry, glaring at the ground, "does not remember me. He does not remember Harry Delacour. He does not remember that night, Hermione. It's all gone."

Hermione's mouth opened and closed, her face slack. She backed up a few steps, then collapsed into a chair opposite Harry's. "How… is that possible?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe he extracted and destroyed the memories?" suggested Ron, glancing helplessly between his two shell-shocked friends.

"You don't understand, Ron." Hermione pressed her fingers against her lips, staring into the distance. Her eyes were blank, as if she was seeing something which wasn't there anymore. "The Tom Riddle we met would never have destroyed the memory of Harry. He was mad, and he wanted to own Harry, like a possession. It was an unhealthy attraction. But the memory of Harry… that is something he would have treasured."

Harry's gaze shuttered as he listened to the words, and he swallowed painfully. He had come to realise, as horrible as it was, that everything Hermione spoke of was true. In the end, he had just been another item to Tom.

Ron pulled his shoulders up into a useless shrug. "Then maybe somebody destroyed the memories for him. I don't know. Maybe they were jealous of you, Harry, even if you were gone."

Harry exchanged a dark glance with Hermione. He would not have put it past Cassius Mulciber to have done something like that. But then again…

"Unlikely," he announced. "Tom had them all wrapped around his little finger. He couldn't have been overpowered by anyone."

"Anyone but you." Hermione's voice rang through the room, clear as a bell.

Harry's jaw tightened. "Well, obviously I wasn't the one who did it."

Nobody spoke for a long moment. Then Hermione said softly, "Ron, could you please ask Kreacher to prepare us a hot meal?"

From the corner of his eye, Harry could see them share a meaningful look and anticipated what was to come. This was a constant occurrence, nowadays.

"Alright," said Ron, attempting a bright tone. "We could all do with that. Food is healing, after all."

He went off in search of the house-elf, leaving Harry and Hermione alone.

"Harry." Hermione inched to the edge of her seat, eyes beseeching. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Harry gritted out.

"You're not fine," disagreed Hermione. "You've come face-to-face with _him_ for the first time since we got back, for the first time in a year, only to learn that he doesn't remember you. You can't be fine."

Harry did not say anything, merely looked at her. All that was not said aloud could be read in his gaze.

Hermione pursed her lips. "If it's any comfort to you, this makes our job easier. _Your_ job easier."

"How'd you figure that one out?" The sarcasm dripped in thick rivulets from Harry's voice.

"He doesn't remember you, he retains no emotional ties. Shouldn't that make destroying his Horcruxes less… complicated?"

Harry stood abruptly. "It changes nothing," he said. "Just because he has forgotten doesn't mean that _I've_ forgotten."

Turning on heel, he made to leave the room but Hermione called after him. "You've still got it, haven't you?"

Harry paused. "Got what?"

"You know what."

Subconsciously, Harry palmed the locket through his clothes. It had not stopped humming since he had first put it around his neck. He glanced over his shoulder at Hermione, tense and perched on the edge of her seat. "I'll look after it for now," he said.

"I don't think that's a very good idea." Hermione held her hand out for it. "I'll wear it first."

"I'll be fine with it." Harry made no move to pass her the locket, and Hermione's expression twisted into disapproval.

"You've been using the word 'fine' an awful lot," she said. "You're already agitated, Harry. The locket will only make you worse."

But the locket contained a fragment of Tom's soul, and it had been whispering to Harry since he had first put it on, recalling stories of their past.

Despite the pure evil that it represented, it was something of a comfort to Harry. It was like walking with Tom's arms around him once more. It was something that Harry craved but did not speak of.

One more smile. One more kiss. One more brush of their fingers in a darkened room. One more.

"Harry," warned Hermione, sensing Harry's inner turmoil.

 _Don't_ , said the voice of Tom Riddle.

"Trust me." Hermione raised her eyebrows, extending her hand a little further forward.

 _Trust me_. Those two simple words were always capable of pulling on Harry's heartstrings.

His fingers trembling, he yanked the chain off his neck, ignoring the Horcrux's cry to never let go. Mutely, he tossed it over to Hermione and immediately felt a little lighter once it was out of his hand.

"Thank you," she said, her knuckles white around the smooth metal of the Horcrux. "We'll rotate every day. Ron can wear it tomorrow. That should give you a break for long enough. All we have to do now is learn how to destroy it."

A year. They had been doing this for a year, and still they had not made any progress in that field. Little progress had been made in general, period.

The diary had been destroyed long ago. Dumbledore had taken care of the ring. Hermione had managed to snag Ravenclaw's lost diadem the day that they had fled from Hogwarts, and now they had the locket. But there were still more out there.

With one last lingering glance at Tom's Horcrux, Harry turned and walked away.

He couldn't shake away the feeling that a voice was screaming for him to stay.

But perhaps it was only a memory.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

 **Well, here's the anticipated new chapter. Enjoy.**

* * *

Hours bled into days and days bled into weeks. Throughout it all, Harry, Ron and Hermione remained concealed behind the wards of 12 Grimmauld Place, passing the locket onto the next bearer with each new sunrise.

On the fifth day, the effect of remaining in the constant company of a Horcrux began to show on Ron. He started lashing out unpredictably. It was clear that he was deeply worried for the safety of his family and friends, but it translated into resentment that he, Harry and Hermione had made little to no progress on how to destroy the Horcruxes they had.

On the seventh day, Harry became irritable. Or rather, more irritable than usual. He sought isolation where his dark thoughts could fester and he contributed little to their group discussions. This did nothing but aggravate Ron further to the point that they were constantly at each other's throats.

On the tenth day, Hermione was no longer able to act the part of the peacekeeper. She became withdrawn, prone to lose her patience easily, and wound up shutting herself behind locked doors with her books.

As a result, both Harry and Ron retreated to their respective rooms and the three seldom saw each other except to shift locket duty.

Ron and Hermione loathed being in contact with it, but they didn't complain when it was their turn to wear it. Harry, on the other hand, anticipated the day he could hang the pendant around his neck again and spend long hours in a darkened corner of the house, feeling closer to Tom than he had in such a long time. The time they spent together was not healthy – even Harry could acknowledge that as he discerned the harmful intentions stirring within the locket – yet he still hungered for their time alone.

It didn't speak to him. But holding the Horcrux close with his eyes shut gave Harry the sense that he was sitting on the opposite side of the room from Tom. Separated by a distance, but still in the presence of one another.

It was a terribly lonely thing.

And yet he rejoiced for this small piece of eternity he had been gifted with.

But after one month of seclusion, everything changed. The universe decided to once again pull the rug out from beneath Harry's feet.

There was nothing particularly special about that day. It was a cold Saturday, the first one of October. Lying on his back on the hard floor of Sirius's old bedroom, Harry had the chain of the locket wound between his fingers, dangling it above his face mindlessly. When he turned his head slightly to the side, pressing his ear against the ground, he could make out the clattering of Kreacher in the kitchen. Dare he say that Kreacher had easily claimed the title of most chipper member of the household of late?

Harry sighed, turning his head back up. He pressed the locket in his hand to his heart and closed his eyes, listening to the soft humming which bubbled up from within the Horcrux.

No, it never spoke to him explicitly. But that didn't mean it never communicated.

Whenever it was Harry's turn to keep it, the Horcrux would choose the quietest time of day to cradle Harry's face in its intangible hands and whisper the most haunting of lullabies. Melodies which bruised his spirit and made him want to weep.

Today was no different.

With the Horcrux humming against his chest and his eyes shuttered against the world, Harry let himself drift up into the clouds. He could almost forget that somewhere beneath him, Hermione was slaving away over books. He could almost forget that somewhere within the same walls, Ron was listening to the wireless radio and praying that Ginny's name would not come up as a casualty of war.

Ginny.

Harry still loved her dearly, but since returning from the past, he had come to realise that he had never been _in_ love with her. To be in love was such a fragile thing – its name couldn't be tossed around lightly. Its touch was both a blessing and a curse, and Harry had felt it before. But for a different person. His love for Ginny was familial, nothing more and nothing less.

He knew that one day, she would understand.

Or perhaps one day, things would be different and they could be Harry-and-Ginny once more. But that was such a far-off future, such a far-off possibility that it merited no proper consideration.

The door to Sirius's bedroom sprang open and Harry lurched upright, wand immediately pointing at the intruder.

But it was only Ron, holding his hands up in surrender. "Relax, mate. It's just me."

"Sorry." Harry's tone was brusque as he lowered his wand and examined his oldest friend from afar.

Ron's face was tense – but whose wasn't nowadays? – and there was a weary cast to his eyes. But he seemed considerably more at ease than yesterday. However, it was his turn to carry the Horcrux again in two days, and his mood would shift again.

"Hermione wants us both to meet her downstairs," said Ron, his eyes flickering to the locket, clasped in Harry's hand. "In the drawing room. She says it's important."

"Fine." Another short and terse reply. Sometimes Harry didn't realise the effect the Horcrux had on him until he was forced to communicate with another person.

Ron made to leave, and then paused, glancing over his shoulder, his head inclined curiously. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"What does it look like?" snapped Harry, and Ron's face closed up.

"Right," he said coldly. "Sorry for asking."

He closed the door behind him, and Harry listened to his footsteps fading back down the corridor.

With a huff, Harry dragged himself to his feet and caught his own eye in the mirror upon the wall. He hadn't expected the year to pass this way.

"What have you done to us?" he asked the Horcrux quietly before shoving it into his pocket and storming out of the room.

* * *

It was the first time in weeks that Hermione, Harry and Ron had been in the same room all at once, and nor was there a pleasant atmosphere about the matter.

Hermione waited impatiently for Harry to settle down in the room. Ron was already perched in the armchair by the window, and Harry opted for leaning against the wall right by the door, ready to flee if need be.

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It was probably (and almost one hundred percent likely) the Horcrux influencing her, but these boys had been driving her up the wall of late. Even when it wasn't her turn to keep an eye on it, she could sense its filthy presence radiating through the walls of the Black family home, and it made her feel violated.

Researching how to destroy the bloody thing was a good distraction.

"I've been so _stupid_ ," Hermione declared now, slamming the book in her hands onto the table in front of her. "Honestly, destroying a Horcrux is so simple! Here, read."

She flipped to page forty-four and gestured for Ron to come over and recite the printed words.

Ron gave her a look before sidling over and leaning over the table, tugging the book over to his side. He read aloud, " _Basilisk venom is extremely powerful, and can kill a person within a little more than a minute at best. It has only one known cure: phoenix tears, which happen to be very rare, increasing the venom's deadliness_."

"Unless you want to bake You-Know-Who a cupcake with Basilisk venom in it and hope that he'll eat it," said Harry bitingly, "I don't see how this helps us much."

"Last time I looked, you weren't exactly helping out at all," countered Hermione, glaring at him, "so you can shut it!"

Harry's mouth slammed shut, his ears reddening, and he glanced down at the floor, crossing his arms. He had the decency to look at least a little ashamed of himself.

Ron watched with wide eyes, and Hermione ordered him to turn to page fifty-one and keep reading.

Ron hurriedly complied. " _Basilisk's venom is extremely long-lasting and can cause fatal damage that cannot be repaired_ –"

"Don't you see?" Hermione was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, her irritation towards Harry almost immediately forgotten again. "This is the answer to everything!"

"Um," said Ron. "I'm siding with Harry on this one…?"

Hermione ignored him. "Haven't you ever wondered why Dumbledore wanted Harry to have the Sword of Gryffindor? It all makes sense!"

"Not really," was Ron's confused reply, and Hermione grabbed the book out of his hands, waving it in his face wildly.

"Piece it together, Ronald!" she turned on Harry, who had not moved from his place by the doorway. "In second-year, how did you kill the Basilisk?"

"I stabbed it," said Harry slowly, and understanding was creeping into his eyes now. "I stabbed it with the Sword of Gryffindor. You think that it's now embedded with Basilisk venom?"

"It makes sense. And if the venom's long-lasting, then after all these years it should still be potent. Dumbledore must have known this, which is why he wanted you to have it."

"So that Harry can challenge You-Know-Who to a good old-fashioned swordfight?" Ron raised his eyebrows. "Doesn't seem likely, 'Mione. What does any of this have to do with the Horcruxes?"

"Absolutely everything!" Hermione began pacing the floor. "How did Dumbledore destroy the ring? I'd be willing to bet he used the sword, seeing as it was kept in the Headmaster's Office. And he willed it to Harry, so that the next Horcruxes could be destroyed by it also."

Hermione met Harry's eye across the room. Harry's face was drained of colour and a muscle jumped in his jaw.

"Okay, fine," said Ron impatiently. "Say that what you're telling us is true. I can see one tiny problem – none of us know where the Ministry has even hidden the sword!"

"That would be a fair point," said Hermione, "if we were looking for the sword."

Ron threw his hands into the air in disbelief. "So now we're _not_ looking for the sword? Make up your mind!"

"What we're _looking_ for," said Hermione, meeting first Ron's gaze and then Harry's, "is a Basilisk fang."

Ron opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Harry's face was expressionless – he had been expecting this.

"You destroyed the diary Horcrux with a fang," continued Hermione, looking at Harry imploringly, "and we know where to find more. This can be done!"

Harry pulled his shoulders up into a loose shrug, his mouth twisting to the side. "How do you propose we snuck into Hogwarts? We can't well waltz in there – they've got maximum security nowadays."

"Perhaps," said Ron slowly, frowning, "we could send a message to the remaining DA members, and you, Harry, could give them directions on how to enter the Chamber."

Harry, however, was set on acting the pessimist.

"You have to speak Parseltongue to enter," he said coolly. He unfolded his arms and stuck his hand into his pocket, where Hermione could see his fingers forming a fist.

Quirking an eyebrow up, she said, "Send a voice recording of yourself, then."

"Don't be stupid," snapped Harry. "You're perfectly aware that the Death Eaters would check whatever owls carry into Hogwarts."

Ron stepped in front of Hermione, affronted. "Don't you start using that tone on her," he told Harry, which only earned him a sneer.

Hermione rested a reassuring hand on Ron's shoulder, and Ron immediately relaxed into her touch.

They had all been so tense, it was impossible to work like this. But now that she had gained some footing, Hermione hoped that everybody could finally calm down a little.

"That's why we won't be sending an owl," she said to Harry, maintaining what she hoped was a steady voice. "We'll use a messenger spell. I've been practicing so I'm sure I can manage one."

Once again, Harry's jaw worked as he searched from some hole in the plan. This time, he couldn't find one. Messengers spells had been invented by Dumbledore himself, after all, and only members of the Order were able to cast them – this way, the recipient could always be sure that it was genuine. Both the Patronus and the voice of the caster made it easy enough to identify who the message was coming from. It was a genius invention, in Hermione's opinion.

Clearly, Harry had mixed thoughts about it.

His eyes were dark as he stared at Hermione, and she could almost hear the cogs and gears whirling in his head as he considered the whole matter.

"Why are you holding back?" demanded Ron. "What's there to think about? Don't you _want_ to defeat You-Know-Who?"

It was the wrong question to ask.

"I don't know!" Harry spat, then looked taken aback by his own words.

Ron gazed at him, horrified. "What?" he whispered.

Harry refused to meet anybody's eye as he repeated in a softer tone, "I don't know."

A headache was beginning to pound inside Hermione's skull. She leaned back against the table by her side and covered her face with her hands, drawing deep breaths in, pushing deep breaths out.

She had been expecting and dreading this confession for a while.

Ron stumbled a few steps backwards, fell back into his armchair. "You can't be serious," he said, and his voice was awfully loud in that room.

"I don't know," said Harry, and his voice was small, almost as if he hadn't been expecting his confession. "I just don't know anymore, Ron."

Hermione uncovered her eyes, directed a firm stare on Harry. "Give me the Horcrux, Harry," she said.

Harry backed closer to the doorway. "Why?" he asked defensively.

"You wouldn't be saying this if you hadn't spent so much time with it." Hermione shook her head. "I should have known that it would affect you this badly. It's Tom Riddle's _soul_ , for God's sake. Please, Harry. Give it to me. I'll put it away so that we can all speak with clear heads for once."

"Put it away?" Harry gave a derisive laugh. "Why didn't you _put it away_ in the first place, if that was an option?"

Hermione straightened her shoulders. "Because there's only one safe place for it to go, and the diadem is already there. I didn't want to risk putting two Horcruxes together, just in case they could _communicate_ or whatnot. I thought that we were all strong enough to handle the locket ourselves. But I'll put it with the diadem now – it's a risk we'll have to take, I suppose."

Harry jolted, as if she had slapped him across the face. "We _are_ strong enough to handle it," he argued, and Hermione gave a soft smile.

"Not all of us," she said.

Harry's face froze, he stared at her as if wounded. Then he murmured, "After all we've been through?"

"After all we've been through," returned Hermione, "you should respect my judgement."

Harry remained as still as a statue for a few heartbeats longer, then he drew his hand out of his pocket, revealing the locket, its chain wrapped around his fingers.

"Fine," he said heavily. "Take him."

He tossed the locket and it arced up into the air, glimmering in the dim light. Hermione caught it and rested it upon the tabletop beside her. " _It_ ," she corrected gently.

Harry looked as if there was something else he very much wanted to say, but ultimately turned on silent heel and left the room.

"Where are you going to put it?" asked Ron quietly, and Hermione turned to face him, weary from the day's trials.

"Inside my bag," she said. "As simple as that. But please, Ron, don't… don't tell Harry where it is. I worry about him."

"If you say so." Ron stood and hesitantly wrapped his arms around Hermione.

She gave a small sigh, allowing herself the support of his lanky frame.

"D'you think Harry'll come around?" asked Ron, his arms warm around her waist. "Because if he doesn't, I close my eyes and I imagine… I imagine a world where You-Know-Who has won. Which he has, as soon as Harry gives in."

Hermione tightened her hold on him, stared with empty eyes at the ground. She wouldn't close them, for fear of seeing the same sight as Ron. "Everything will turn out alright," she said aloud, more to herself than anyone else. "In the end."

* * *

Dinner that night, six hours after their discord, was as tense an affair as ever.

Both Hermione and Ron watched Harry the entire time. Hermione's gaze was both expressionless and firm, as if she was attempting to psyche him out. Ron kept staring like he was a particularly exotic beetle in a glass display. Harry had been expecting this change in behaviour. It wasn't even unreasonable on their part – Harry was fully aware of the implication of his earlier words, and it was not good.

Hermione and Ron sat together on one side of the extensive Black family dining table, Harry opposite them as they picked at their steak and kidney pies. The meal with rich and hearty – Harry gathered this from the delicious aromas – but ever since returning from 1945, food had tasted like ash in his mouth.

Eating became a chore to maintain his strength for the task of Horcrux hunting which Dumbledore had set. Harry wondered whether his reaction to food was caused by their time-travel woes, but Hermione didn't appear to suffer from the same symptoms as him. She and Ron ate with gusto (Ron more so), and consequently Harry had not brought his troubles to the table.

They already had so much to worry about.

When he couldn't stomach the silence any longer, Harry dropped his fork with a clatter and said, "What's the plan?"

Hermione's eyebrows shot up – she had not been expecting him to be the one to break the rigid barrier between them. "Plan?" she asked.

"Plan of action, plan of attack. You know." Harry fought to keep his patience.

It was impossible to miss the look that Hermione and Ron shared.

"What?" Harry snapped.

"So, you're alright with going along with this?" asked Hermione. "Just earlier today, you were saying that…"

"I know what I said." Harry diverted his gaze. "And I'd be lying through my teeth if I told you that I didn't mean it. But I'm… this doesn't mean that I'm going to give up. I want a world rid of Volde– of You-Know-Who just as much as you two. But I still –" he abruptly choked off, his emotions jamming into a painful lump in his throat.

Hermione sat back, folding her arms. "But you're still in love with Tom Riddle." Her tone was bland.

"Love?" Harry gave an anguished laugh. "You and I both know that I'm not in love with him. I may have once been, but he betrayed me and I'm not stupid enough to forgive him for that."

"Then what?"

"It's like… it's like there's still a shadow of what I had once felt, lingering in my chest. I don't love Tom, and I especially don't love You-Know-Who. But I still… I still _feel_ something for him, and I can't _explain_ it." Frustrated with his own inability to communicate with words, Harry turned his gaze back to his two companions.

Hermione's eyes were boring into him.

Ron was staring at his hands, something akin to shame flickering across his face. "I can never understand," he said hoarsely, "why it is that you always have the worst of luck."

It was the closest thing to understanding that Harry would get from Ron. His lips twisting into a sort of grimace, Harry shrugged and looked away again.

At long last Hermione announced, "Well, if you're not prepared to give up, then that's a good place to start. Neither Ron nor I could ask for anything more from you."

Grateful for the ready acceptance, Harry dipped his head into a miniscule nod.

"Now," continued Hermione, already pressing into the next issue on hand, "we haven't properly sat down to discuss our next step forward. Not since…"

"Since we got the locket," offered Ron. "I think we've been out of business for too long, if you ask me, and it's about time we hit the road again."

Hermione didn't smile, and he reached out to lace his long, freckled fingers through hers, perhaps an unconscious gesture.

An unconscious gesture which Hermione mirrored precisely.

Harry's eyes followed the movement, his eyebrows creeping up his forehead, surprised enough to forget his own problems momentarily.

It appeared that his two oldest friends had finally pulled their heads out of their arses and seen the light. The thought was amusing for a split second, and Harry almost smiled, but then he remembered his own perpetual loneliness.

"Ginny, Luna and Colin, right?" he said abruptly, and Hermione and Ron jumped, pulling away from each other.

"What about them?" asked Hermione, uncharacteristically vacuous. Harry was tempted to roll his eyes at his friends' flustered states.

Once they came to themselves, it was ultimately decided that Ginny Weasley would be their Hogwarts contact. They concluded that Luna would lose the Basilisk fangs after retrieving them and claim that the Crumple-Horned Snorkack had taken them; Colin, on the other hand, was likely to the slip over and give himself concussion in the Chamber before he managed to achieve the objective. Ginny was their safest bet – as much as Ron disliked that.

"It's unfair to ask her to return to that place," he argued. "I mean, she nearly died there!"

"Nothing about this situation is fair," Hermione reasoned, "and at this point in time, we've all got to make our sacrifices. Ginny's strong, she's capable, and she can refuse the task if she wants to. I'll make that clear in my message to her."

"If she refuses – and all the others, too," said Ron, "then what?"

It seemed to Harry that for once, Hermione was at a loss for words. There was a long, drawn out moment of silence during which the three considered the near impossible feat of theirs before Ron managed weakly, "One bridge at a time then, eh?"

"Yes," agreed Hermione, giving what was obviously an attempt at an enthused nod of her head. It wasn't fooling anyone. There was a pregnant pause in which they returned to their half-eaten dinners, then Hermione dropped her cutlery with a clatter and stood. "I'll go draft a letter for our messenger spell."

It sounded as if she were choking on a lump of gristle from their meal. She all but fled the room.

"You know," remarked Ron as the door slammed shut behind her, "you really need to break this habit of yours."

His tone wasn't accusatory but Harry's hackles still rose.

"What habit?" he barked.

"Shutting us out, trying to hold the weight of the world on your shoulders." Wearily, Ron ran a hand through his hair. "Look, mate, these past few weeks have been tough. We're all on edge, but can we try to calm down for a few minutes? You're my best mate, but I haven't been here for you even though you've been suffering. I've just been so… _angry_. With everything, everyone. This whole world, it's taken a turn for the worse."

Harry simply stared at his redheaded friend, temporarily unsure of what to say.

When he was met by silence, the beseeching light melted away from Ron's eyes and Harry could actually see the defensive walls springing back into place.

His face flushing, Ron lowered his gaze to the table. "I know I'm shitty at these _feelings_ talks, but I just wanted to say that I'm sorry and I'll try harder to be here for you and 'Mione. I just hope that you could try to reciprocate that a bit, too. And I–"

Apparently too mortified to manage anymore words, Ron's mouth snapped shut and he lurched to his feet, no doubt to make his own flighty exit.

"I'm sorry as well." Harry's words were so soft, they could have easily been overlooked if the room hadn't been as silent as a grave. He met Ron's gaze, no longer attempting to hide the exhaustion in his own eyes. A vulnerability he so rarely allowed himself. "I'm sorry for disappointing you both."

Unspoken words hovered between them, but that was all Ron needed to slump back down again, covering his mouth with his hand. "What has happened to us?" he murmured. "Hermione, You-Know-Who's schoolyard nemesis. You, his ex-boyfriend. Me…"

"A perpetually angry person?" offered Harry, and then started laughing. Within seconds they were both doubled over, the air ripe with hysterical laughter, and Harry leaned his cheek against the tabletop, his voice trickling away and tears beginning to blur the room.

He lifted his head again, blinking hard to clear his vision. "Say, Ron," he began, quiet once more. "Do you actually believe us?"

Ron raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"Believe that we actually were stranded in the past for half a year." Harry smirked to himself – even to him it seemed an unlikely story when he heard it aloud. "You-Know-Who didn't believe me. Why should you?"

It sent a sharp jolt through his heart and the smirk abruptly melted from his face. Tom, no, Voldemort didn't believe him. Which still begged the question – _why_?

"I believe you because, well…" Ron pulled his shoulders up into a helpless sort of shrug. "Because you two are my friends."

Harry smiled wryly, bitterly. "That doesn't change the fact that we could just be totally bonkers."

"You're not bonkers," said Ron, his face uncharacteristically solemn. "But on the off chance that you are, then I wouldn't miss out on the ride for the world."

He grinned at Harry and Harry grinned back.

A long year had passed and they had finally reached an understanding.

* * *

 **Harry be feelin' single AF at the moment. Shout out to all the single pringles reading haha. And please note, the words from the book about Basilisk venom are not my own and are taken from** ** _Harry Potter Wiki_** **.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

 **I swear that after this chapter, we're actually going to get somewhere. Please put up with Harry being angsty a little bit longer!**

* * *

Determined to renew some of the normality in their lives without a Horcrux hanging over their heads, Harry and Ron took to playing games of Wizard's Chess and Exploding Snap in the kitchen. Ron won ninety percent of the time but that hardly bothered Harry. His head was rarely in the game anyway. He much preferred sitting back and memorising the scenery around him.

There was Hermione, poring over books across the room from them. A weariness remained in her eyes from their misadventures, but at least her shoulders weren't so stiff anymore. Returning to the future had alleviated some of the burden she clearly felt.

On the opposite side of the table from Harry was Ron, his brow furrowing as he assessed the chessboard. Not for the first time, Harry was grateful that Ron had spent that night in the Hospital Wing a year ago. He was glad that one of them had been spared these unnecessary scars.

Then there was Kreacher, clattering around with various copper saucepans on the stove. The old house-elf's attitude had drastically changed towards the three newest members of the Black household ever since he had been gifted with Regulus Black's faux locket. He had cleaned up both himself and their living quarters, and was now whistling a jaunty tune as he pottered about the kitchen. Mechanically, Harry's eyes attached to the locket bouncing on Kreacher's skinny chest and unbidden memories of Tom snaked into his thoughts, twisting like vines of poison ivy.

 _No_.

Harry broke his gaze away from the locket, returning to the game of chess.

He couldn't remember the last time life had been this uneventful as they waited for a response from Ginny. This short period of time was one he would use for healing.

If only the universe would be so kind to him for once.

Ron had barely uttered the words, "Knight to–" when a silvery-blue globe shimmered into existence before their very eyes. It unfurled its layers, like a butterfly spreading its wings, until there was a scintillating mare standing before them, lifting its proud gaze. Even Kreacher paused in his activities to listen.

" _Sorry I took so long to reply_ ," came Ginny's voice. Her Patronus' mouth did not move yet the words were clear as daylight. " _I took a little while to get the messenger spell fully functioning. Now, straight to the point – is there even a question as to whether I'll do it? Of course I'm going to. Curfew has been shifted to nine in the evening, so I'll be waiting in the second floor girls' lavatory at ten o'clock sharp._ "

The mare dipped its head briefly before melting away as suddenly as it had appeared.

Kreacher returned to banging a pot around.

The game forgotten, Ron stood.

"Great," he said, relief and sarcasm in his voice evenly balanced. "She'd better not get caught or I'll… I'll…" momentarily tongue-tied, he finally managed to wrangle up the words, "Strangle her."

"You may not have to," murmured Harry, earning a sharp glance in return.

"She'll be smarter than that." Hermione closed the book she had been consulting. Her eyes betrayed her unease. "It's all planned it all out. Messenger spells for quick communication. We can never send an owl into Hogwarts, but with the correct timing, they can send an owl out with the Basilisk fangs. But first, in order to reach the lavatory, she must exit the dormitory at precisely the right time to avoid the patrols – this I'm sure she already knows. Late night wanderings are practically encoded in a her DNA. What's important is that your messenger spell works properly, Harry, otherwise Ginny will be as good as stranded. Your timing must be impeccable, too, so perhaps you should record your message at five minutes to ten, just to ensure that you–"

"Hermione," said Harry. She was rambling, a tell-tale sign that her nerves were finally getting to her. "Calm down. I'm not going to strand Ginny."

Hermione's mouth was still hanging open, and she shut it quickly, shook her head.

"Of course you're not going to, I was just making sure…"

Something about her tone made Harry feel the need to justify himself. "I've practiced before," he added, defensive.

"All will work out, master," croaked Kreacher, snapping his fingers. "But first, teatime."

Harry and Ron's chessboard scooted across the table and in its place slid a tall porcelain teapot, complete with three matching teacups. A tray of scones and finger sandwiches followed, and Harry smothered down an overwhelming urge to laugh. Somehow, three exiles found themselves seated in a warm kitchen, soup bubbling in a pot on the stove, enjoying tea while a Dark Lord's forces swept the street outside the window in search of them. It was a ludicrous idea, yet Harry was living it.

Then again, which part of his life didn't seem ludicrous nowadays?

"Cheers," said Ron, who had warmed up to Kreacher significantly, diving for a sandwich. Not even impending doom could dampen his appetite.

Hermione joined them at the table, placing her book to the side to serve herself a scone.

"Eat," she advised Harry, so he reluctantly poured himself a cup, watching as she sliced open the buttery folds and spooned in cream and jam.

To distract her before she could start piling food onto his own plate, Harry peered at the broken spine of her book.

"What research have you been doing this time? Who's this… Hardwin Fjord?"

On any normal occasion, Hermione would have jumped at the chance to discuss her latest perusal for hours. But she proved that this was a not a normal occasion. Her hand snapped out and brought the book down into her lap before Harry could so much as blink.

"It's nothing. Just a bit of light reading."

Harry quirked an eyebrow, the blatant lie shining through, but before he could begin his interrogation, Ron interrupted.

"You've got to eat more, before you fade away into a shadow." He took it upon himself to load Harry's plate up. "When's the last time you actually finished a meal?"

"Yesterday," Harry gritted back, none too pleased with the ministrations of Ron. Hermione's attention may have been diverted, but it seemed there was a second mother hen in the house. Whether this development was out of sheer obliviousness or covering for Hermione's slip-up, Harry did not know.

"Liar."

Grumbling, Harry cut a quick sideways glance at Hermione. She was smiling slightly now, but her knuckles were still white around the book, whose cover she had hidden against her lap.

With a grimace, Harry returned to appraising his full plate. He wasn't done with her, but the investigation could continue another time. For now, he had to wheedle his way out of this mountain of sandwiches.

He stood abruptly.

"I need the bathroom," he announced.

Ron rose to his full height, towering over Harry, and slammed him back into his chair.

"No, you don't."

"You can't keep me here," said Harry petulantly.

"Watch me."

There was a long pause. Sighing resignedly, Harry slumped back into his chair, feigning defeat, all the while watching for the moment that Ron would exchange a pointed look with Hermione like two parents handling their wayward son…

As soon as the moment came to be, Harry leapt to his feet and made his flighty exit from the kitchen, Ron's hollering echoing behind him.

It was proving to be a long day, but Harry had not anticipated exactly how long it would be.

* * *

To Hermione's great relief (which she did little to hide), Harry successfully directed a messenger spell to meet Ginny at the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. He did not encourage his stag to deliver any words more than the bare minimum (A shy "hello, Ginny", followed by _:open:_ to be reused on the two doorways which would stand in her way).

To Ginny, it had been a year since they had last seen each other. To Harry, it had been closer to two. Even then, they had scarcely spoken since their brief entanglement. The connection would forever linger, but nothing between them could ever be the same.

For a tense hour they waited in the drawing room, Ron pacing as he chewed his thumbnail, Hermione tucked away with her book, strategically concealing the cover from Harry's view, and Harry perched in the window seat, arms looped around his knees as he gazed into a drab sky.

It was a grey sort of night. The stars were muffled by muggy clouds, the moon a dull blur overhead, yet there was not a whisper of rain to be heard.

Drab. Not a single hint to what the rest of the night had in store.

At last, when eleven o'clock tolled on the grandfather clock in the hallway, a mare unfurled before their eyes, drawing each of them out of their respective trance.

" _Objective achieved. Sent by swiftest owl. Should arrive in morning_."

A collective sigh of relief swept up Hermione and Ron, but Harry was unable to fathom a sound. It seemed that his worst premonition would come to pass tomorrow.

Merlin give him strength.

They waited for the mare to melt back into shadow, but it lingered a moment longer, intelligent eyes turning to meet Harry's. With baited breath he anticipated condemnation, a sharp word, he didn't know what to expect–

Then Ginny's sweet, soft voice murmured, " _Goodbye, Harry_ ," and Harry closed his eyes, lowering his chin. By the time he raised his gaze again, she was long gone.

"She's safe," Ron was chanting, ringing his hands. The redness in his cheeks looked suspiciously as though he had been clawing at his face unconsciously.

Hermione stood to meet him, smiling tautly.

"We're all glad," she said, passing Harry a sideways glance. "Aren't we?"

Harry gave a short nod, sliding out from the window seat.

"Since that's over with, I think I'm going to retire for the night."

He took his leave without another word, but did not lie down in bed for another hour. For a long time, he stalked around the perimeter of his temporary bedroom, lost in thought. If Ginny's concept of time was correct, a package of Basilisk fangs would alight on the doorsteps by owl somewhere within the next twelve hours. Or rather, a package of murder instruments to be used to gradually kill off each piece of Voldemort's soul.

It was an activity that he was obliged to participate in.

"How absolutely delightful," snarled Harry, kicking at the door and stubbing his toe. Swearing, he hopped around for a few seconds before resuming his angry pacing around the room, all the while muttering under his breath.

Finally, Hermione knocked on his door and politely asked him to keep it down because all of London could hear his clomping about and if he wasn't careful, he would lead all the Death Eaters to their doorstep.

It was then that Harry was resigned to lying in bed, his eyes wide open as he examined the ceiling with its chipping paint and a crack the shape of a lightning bolt to his far left. He willed sleep to find him, to end the torment in his mind, but sleep may as well have been on the opposite side of the universe for all the good it did him.

The house seemed to be just awake as he. Even with the bedroom door shut tight, the sounds surrounding him clawed their way into the room, through the gap beneath the door and the window which was slightly ajar.

Harry brought his pillow down on his head, almost suffocating himself in the process. His fingers fisting in the fabric, he tried to muffle out the wide-awake world. He was entirely unsuccessful.

An old car trundled by in the middle of the road. The engine clunked noisily and one of its wheels hit a puddle, spraying water across the sidewalk.

The drunken lurching of chunky heels on the opposite side of the street, the tinkle of glass on pavement.

 _Noise_ …

The stairs further down the corridor creaked, a memory of feet from an age long passed.

The tap in the bathroom leaked, droplets thrumming on the porcelain base of the sink.

 _Noise._

A book slipped off the end of Hermione's bed, dog-earring itself on the floor.

Something tapped away within the walls.

 _Noise._

A bale of dust stirred in the corner of the room.

Ron let loose a nasally snore.

 _Noise_.

A voice whispered.

 _NOISE._

Harry bolted upright.

Was it his imagination, or had he heard his own name, called out from a distance.

Ever so quietly, he slid out of bed, stepping into his boots that he had left on the ground. Hypervigilant to the fact that Hermione would come running if the floorboards groaned under his weight in the hallway, Harry carefully edged open his bedroom door and toed his way down the corridor.

 _:Harry_ … _:_

He paused by the door to Hermione's room.

Unless he was sorely mistaken, the voice seemed to be coming from within there.

 _You should go back to bed_ , the rational part of his brain told him.

 _You should find the voice_ , said the less rational part.

Harry, being Harry, agreed with the latter and reached for the doorhandle, easing the door open.

The room was dark, the curtains drawn across the window. His eyes adjusting to the even dimmer lighting, Harry took a step in and nearly slid over on a book stationed by his feet.

Swallowing a cry of alarm, he managed to maintain his balance and passed his eyes towards the lump beneath the bedsheets. Judging it to be safe, he pulled out his wand and whispered, " _Lumos_."

The book he had briefly employed as a skateboard was a ratty old thing, thin and with a damaged spine. Upon closer inspection, Harry noted that there was no title printed on it.

With another precautionary glance in Hermione's direction, he crouched and flipped through the pages, eyes skimming over the sentences.

 _A history of investigations into parallel universes… research yields no evidence that alternate timelines exist… only self-claimed universe-hoppers claim to have seen into other world lines… researchers anticipate no foreseeable legitimacy to their statements…_

Harry was very keen to know why it was that Hermione was reading about parallel universes, a subject she had oftentimes branded as 'nimble-wimble rubbish' and 'for witless dunces with nothing better to do with their time'.

Replacing the book on the floor, Harry lifted his wand higher.

His eyes widened.

This was what Hermione had been doing. For how long, he could only guess, but she was drowning herself in this nonsensical research, perhaps every waking moment. She was known for her excessive reading habits, but Harry had never seen her take it to this level before.

The room was a battlefield of paper. Pages of writing tacked to the walls, annotated in red ink, teetering stacks of books, no doubted charmed so that they would never lose balance. Harry was hard-pressed to find single surface which was not occupied by a book.

Dodging between the book towers, Harry studied what it was she had been reading about.

 _Alternate universes._

 _Parallel universes._

 _World lines._

 _Time-travel._

 _Time._

Harry shook his head. The woman was obsessed. Did Ron know that this was what she was doing while she was locked up in this room?

Creeping nearer to the foot of her bed, Harry picked up the book that had fallen only minutes ago.

 _Tales from Beyond_.

His thumb rubbed along the name engraved beneath the title in silver lettering.

 _Hardwin Fjord_.

This was what Hermione had been so secretive about. Harry pried the pages open and determined that it was only a recent publication, first printed in 1994 in Australia. But judging by the great weight of it in his hands, it enclosed many years of at least one person's hard work.

It had paid off, too. Harry had never heard of this book, but a long list of awards it had received appeared on the second page.

 _'_ _A ground-breaking work_ ,' wrote one critic. 'Tales from Beyond _will become a household name in years to come._ '

Harry would have very much liked to begin reading right there and then, identify what all the secrecy was about, but then Hermione shifted in her sleep and Harry was brought back to himself.

Hardwin Fjord wasn't his reason for being here. There was still a voice within these walls that he had not yet uncovered.

He cupped his hand around the light at the end of his wand, limiting its range of illumination, then listened. At first, all he could hear was the low drone of background noise, this home which refused to sleep…

Then the murmur stroked its way up his neck, gliding around the shell of his ear and caressing his cheek with cold fingers.

 _:Harry.:_

Again, it was his name being spoken. Just his name, but it sent raw emotions flooding into his chest, it felt as though he was drowning in it–

 _Where is it coming from_? Eyes wild, Harry scrambled around as quietly as he could, poking his head into corners and between book towers. _Where are you_?

 _There_.

Harry froze in his search, a chill running down his spine on hairy legs. Wetting his lips, he followed the light of his wand beneath the bed to Hermione's purple, beaded handbag. It seemed to hum in anticipation. He could feel it vibrating in the base of his skull. Harry sent another swift glance upwards to ensure that she was still asleep. She was.

His fingers trembling, he slid to his knees and took the bag into his hands, the material buzzing against his skin. He gently released the clasp.

A breath of air swept out, stirring the hair around his face. A deep, black chasm stared back up at him, the vibrations in his bones multiplying threefold. Now he could feel it buzzing through his bloodstream, rushing to his ears until all he could hear was this golden noise.

Hermione had charmed the bag so that it was extendable from the inside, it could hold any manner of things now. There was no way that he would know how to locate and retrieve whatever was speaking to him.

As it turned out, he didn't need to.

Like a man possessed, Harry watched as his arm reached into the bag, melting away into the shadows, guided by some unknown entity. When he was shoulder-deep, he allowed his hand to swipe sideways, catching on a burning hot chain. As soon as his fingertips contacted it, the vibrations in his bones stopped, the all-encompassing sound of the rush of blood became muted.

This world full of noise plunged into silence.

His arm began drawing out of the bag again, the chain locked in his grasp.

 _No_. Harry knew what this was, this wasn't meant to be happening– yet he was no longer in control of his body, he was overcome by such strong compulsion… his hand returned from the shadowy depths of the bag, and Tom Riddle's locket emerged soon after.

He held it out in front of him, dangling it over the bag. The metal glittered. Then it spoke to him for the first time since it had arrived.

 _:Hello, Harry.:_

Harry closed his eyes and shuddered. _:Hello, Tom,:_ he whispered.

 _:You should release me, mon amour,:_ purred the long-ago voice of Tom, almost conversational, the words gliding off his silver tongue. _:Let me out of this pretty prison. We can be together again.:_

But this wasn't Tom. This was just a shadow of his past self, forever doomed to remain a teenage spirit.

Biting down on his lip to muffle the noise of anguish which threatened to escape, Harry forced his fingers to let go of the chain, sending the Horcrux tumbling back into the abyss. With a fleeting glance at the sleeping form on the bed, Harry swept the bag back into the shadows and all but fled the room.

He couldn't stay in here another minute. He summoned his Invisibility Cloak, threw it over his shoulders and hastened out the front door of 12 Grimmauld Place and into the streets of London.

* * *

Under the iron fist rule of Voldemort, it was a subdued world that Harry stepped into. Neither wizarding world nor Muggle world were spared and few dared to venture out alone, much less at night.

An occasional car zipped by as Harry drifted along, stepping around puddles, alternating between sidewalk and gutter like an idle child.

If Hermione found at that he had left the wards of 12 Grimmauld Place (and she would), she'd probably make Voldemort's job easier by murdering him herself. Kicking at a loose pebble in his path, Harry dully contemplated telling her that he had done it to escape the Horcrux's seduction. On second thought, she'd also murder him if she found out that he had sought its location and successfully found it.

Groaning, Harry slumped against the brick wall by the entrance to a pub. For a Friday night, it was remarkably quiet. That is, the lights were off and it looked wholly unwelcoming. The sign hanging over the locked door shifted in the slightest of breezes, its rusty hinges squeaking. Somewhere on the other side of the door, something scuttered over floorboards. A rodent of some sort.

 _Scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch_.

Like nails on chalkboard.

Harry dragged his fingers through his hair, blowing out a breath of air.

 _What am I doing?_

Perhaps if he headed back now, no one would notice that he'd left and he could avoid a premature death.

Pushing himself off the wall, Harry started back the way he had come, watching his feet moving across the filthy pavement, his Invisibility Cloak swaying back and forth. A fellow pedestrian passed him by, moving in the opposite direction, platinum-blond hair the only bright spot on this dark street…

Harry whirled around in time to see the man whipping around the next corner but not before throwing a glance over his shoulder, pale eyes wide and alert.

"Mal–" Harry covered his mouth before the fully formed name could escape his lips.

 _Malfoy?_

There was no question whether he should follow Draco Malfoy or not. Over their Hogwarts years, it had become so ingrained in his impulses to follow his schoolyard nemesis if it looked as though he was up to no good – and Malfoy was always up to no good.

On nimble feet, Harry tailed his newly acquired target from a distance, noting the way that Malfoy glanced over his shoulder every ten seconds.

 _Twitchy little ferret, isn't he,_ remarked a voice that sounded an awful lot like Ron in Harry's head. Harry set his mouth into a thin line.

Twitchy little ferret in cahoots with Voldemort, now. If he was lucky, perhaps Malfoy would lead him straight to some secret Death Eater headquarters. But they didn't seem to be heading anywhere in particular. It was as though they were circling the city, lost souls with no destination.

At one point Malfoy paused but did not turn and Harry was almost certain that he had been found out, but then Malfoy continued as thought nothing had happened.

The journey was uneventful, minutes dragging out until time melted away and his only judgement of it was the arc of the shuttered moon in the sky. The toll of not having slept in almost twenty-four hours began to take effect on Harry soon enough, and his vigilance slipped.

This was how he wound up in a dead-end alleyway with no Malfoy in sight.

Harry's eyes widened and he swung around in time to see Malfoy Apparate back into view behind him and cast a spell which tore the Invisibility Cloak off his shoulders. It crumpled into a heap at his feet.

"I should have known it was you, Potter."

Harry instinctively slipped his wand into his hand, raising it to meet Malfoy head-on. He almost lowered it again when he looked directly at Malfoy's face, really looked at it.

His cheeks were hollow, eyes ringed in bruise-like shadows, hair swept back carelessly. Time had not been kind on him.

"What the ruddy hell happened to _you_?" asked Harry aloud. Malfoy attempted a sneer, but it was half-hearted.

"I don't answer to you. I think that the Dark Lord will be most pleased if I manage to snag you for him. You've been causing them an awful lot of trouble."

" _Them_?" Harry's fingers tightened around his wand as he spoke. "Excluding yourself from that lot?"

"Us," Malfoy corrected quickly, attempting a thin smile. There was nothing authentic about it, nor anything mean. His lips were chapped and split at the movement. A droplet of blood welled up, a tongue darted out to correct it.

He was pitiful sight, and Harry said so. The pseudo smile shrunk back into a grimace.

"Who the fuck asked for your opinion? _Expelliarmus_!"

Harry may not have been at the top of his game then, but a school year of guarding his back from the likes of the young prodigy Tom Riddle and his gang made Malfoy look like a kitten without claws.

Harry ducked around the spell, swiftly disarmed him and then cast, " _Incarcerous_."

Malfoy barely had time to blink before he was trussed up like a leg of ham at the butcher's. Pleased with his quick work, Harry levitated an incensed Malfoy to the end of the alleyway where they would not be interrupted. Malfoy continued to spit profanities until Harry dumped him on the ground, winding him.

"Now," said Harry, attempting to be pleasant about the whole matter. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way. And I'll let you know that I'm handy with the Cruciatus Curse now, though I'd rather not have to use it."

Malfoy had been attempting to wriggle into a sitting position, his cheek smushed against the ground, but paused at the words. His eyes, still as sharp as ever, darted to Harry's wand, finding the jagged crack. Apparently, the sight convinced him to heed the warning.

"Listen, I don't know anything–"

Harry tutted, squatting so that they were closer to the same level.

"Don't give me that. You must know something. Tell me why you, a poncy little pure-blood, stepped off your pedestal to grace these Muggle streets with your presence."

Malfoy's mouth twisted up and he refused to meet Harry's eyes. Harry cleared his throat loudly, tapping his wand against the underside of Malfoy's pointy chin. The latter remained unresponsive. Harry sighed and lifted his wand.

" _Cr_ –"

"Well, fuck, Potter!" Malfoy exploded, twisting around to glare up at him, but it was impossible to miss the real panic in his gaze. "Can you blame me for wanting to get away from that madman for a night?"

As soon as the words were spoken, he looked as if he sorely regretted them. But Harry knew they were the truth. He rose to his full height again, appraising Malfoy in new light.

"You think he's a madman?" he asked.

Malfoy's jaw tensed, his eyes darted back down, but there was no mistaking that his face had drained of any colour it may have had to begin with.

"Malfoy."

"No one can know I said that." The words were hushed, small.

"You're just as much as slave to You-Know-Who as the rest of the world," said Harry, pursing his lips. Then, "How many times have you been under the Cruciatus?"

Malfoy shook his head slowly, gravel biting into his cheek. The fire that used to burn in his eyes had dimmed.

Sighing, Harry helped to prop him upright, leaning his head against the concrete at the back of the alleyway. Malfoy accepted the help with no comment.

Harry could have easily threatened him with the Cruciatus Curse again, but he had a heart. The young man in front of him was no longer the spoiled brat he had grown up alongside. Well, perhaps still a brat, but a damaged one.

No. Voldemort had gotten his claws in this one already. This was a broken human.

"Draco," Harry said haltingly. "Tell me."

"Oh, don't play at being friends now." Malfoy cocked his head to the opposite side, levelling Harry with a deadpan stare. "Why should you care that I don't have enough fingers to count it on? I don't want your pity. Besides, I have it better than most other low-ranking Death Eaters."

"Let me guess, most of them end up dead within a week?"

"Oh, Potter," drawled Malfoy, some semblance of his old self surfacing momentarily. "There are worse fates than death."

Harry's heart gave a little lurch, but he said, "I want you to tell me everything you know about You-Know-Who's latest movements. Anything. Who he last spoke to, what they discussed, where his heaviest patrols are, what he ate for breakfast. I'm not picky."

Malfoy's face twitched.

"If that's what you want to know, you've got the wrong person." He squirmed, adjusting his positioning, his voice dark. "I'm nothing to him. I just happen to be the son of two of his highest-up soldiers. I'm not even good enough to be his fulltime errand boy."

The sun was beginning to rise, casting long shadows around them. Harry had to hurry.

"He's never entrusted you with a single task?" he demanded. "You've gathered absolutely nothing from your time in his service?"

"Are you deaf, Potter? I believe that I've told you that multiple times–" Malfoy cut off abruptly, a flicker of hesitation sparking across his features. Had he always been this easy to read?

"You remembered something, didn't you?" probed Harry, unconsciously leaning forwards in anticipation.

Malfoy scrunched his nose, eyes narrowing. "I might have."

This whole conversation was like pulling teeth. Harry sat back on his haunches, leaning his chin on top of his knees. "If you really believe that he's a madman, shouldn't you want to help me?" he asked, managing to reign in his impatience.

"It's not that simple," Malfoy snapped. "Merlin, I… you know what? I'll tell you. Enjoy decrypting it, because it makes no sense to me, or anyone else but _him_ for that matter. The Dark Lord has only ever bestowed one task upon me, other than… other than to kill Dumbledore. I failed at that one."

Suddenly, Harry's jaw felt a little too tight.

Malfoy hurriedly pushed on – even he could tell that this was a sensitive topic that should not be lingered on.

"He… he asked me to plant a time-turner at Hogwarts, so I left it in the Room of Requirement. It had–"

Malfoy closed his mouth when Harry held up a hand to silence him, mind racing a mile an hour. All those loose puzzle pieces that were jumbled up in his mind were beginning to search among themselves, picking themselves up and brushing themselves off after a year of gathering dust. Suddenly, Harry felt restricted in this alleyway, as if the two buildings on either side were closing in on him and he couldn't quite breathe properly.

"A time-turner?" he confirmed. "You're absolutely certain it was a time-turner?"

"They're hardly the most common of household appliances," said Malfoy, vaguely irritated by the interruption. "As I was saying, it had some sort of powerful spell on it but the Dark Lord didn't say what."

A puzzle piece lifted itself up, separating itself from the rest.

"When was this?" he asked in a hushed tone.

Perhaps it was the look on his face, but Malfoy chose to not bullshit this time.

"Well, I'd be lying if I said I could remember the exact date, but it was sometime during the beginning of our seventh year."

The puzzle piece slotted with another, just one other from among the thousands, but it was something. It was progress.

"Fuck," Harry whispered, eyes glazing over as he stared straight through Malfoy, as though seeing into another dimension.

"What–"

" _FUCK_!" The bellow echoed up above, bouncing off the walls of the two parallel buildings and escaping through the gash that led to the paling sky. Malfoy cowered away as the entire alleyway shook, stones, dust and dirt raining down on them from above. A bird was disturbed from its nest and cawed.

"What the flipping fuck is he playing at?" Harry pushed himself back to his feet, walking circles in front of Malfoy as he fretted. "We suspected that it was him who orchestrated this whole mess when he restored us to our own time, but had to reject that conclusion. After all, how is that possible if he doesn't even remember me? We thought Dumbledore and Dippet must have made a mistake, and yet..."

Harry trailed off, appearing to reign in his emotions. Then his head imploded in on itself and he shouted, "Why is it always you, Tom, who has to try to ruin my life?"

Overcome by another overwhelming tidal wave of rage, he lashed out at a garbage tin to one side, sending it spinning. It collided a mere metre from where Malfoy sat, causing Malfoy to jolt furiously, staring at him in alarm.

"Alright, Potter," he said, evidently unpractised in the whole 'soothing people' department. "Why don't you take some deep breaths before you hurt someone?"

"I'm not like your _Dark Lord_ ," Harry snarled, feeling wild and impulsive. "I don't fuck around with people, even if I feel like it."

Breathing heavily through his nose, Harry pointed his wand at Malfoy.

Malfoy attempted to scramble away but was unsuccessful – his only achievement was knocking the back of his head against the wall behind him.

"Merlin and Morgana," he began, eyes trained on the wand, his face pallid. "I never imagined that this would be how I died. In a filthy Muggle alleyway, by Harry Potter's hand."

"I'm not killing you," barked Harry, then closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, attempting to gather his wits again. "I'll Stun you and leave you here. I can't risk you following me back."

Malfoy fell silent, his face downcast. In this dim lighting, his head might have been a skull; those hollow planes of his face did nothing to help.

"Please," he murmured. "I… I would ask that in return for the information that I have told you – of free will – that you do me only one favour."

"Of free will?" Harry glowered at the ropes binding him in place.

"I could have made your job much more difficult."

"I do have to admit that for my first proper interrogation, it went rather well," Harry allowed, his glower softening a smidgeon. "Fine. I'll listen."

Malfoy hesitated, swallowing. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. After a long moment, he let out a breath and said, "If you leave me like this, _he_ is going to search through my very being until he finds what I have told you, and he'll... he'll ruin me. He does not take kindly to those who betray him."

"Is that what this is?" asked Harry, matching him in softness of tones. "A betrayal?"

Malfoy's eyes met his, and that was all the answer he needed.

Pity swirled in the pit of Harry's stomach, what remained of his fit of rage drained away. He understood exactly what Malfoy wanted.

Malfoy saw the resolve form on his face, expelled a small breath of air, his stiff shoulders slumping.

"Thank you," he breathed as Harry brought his wand back up, directed it between his eyebrows.

They weren't friends. They never would be. But in that moment, an old bond stirred.

Before Harry could cast the spell, his time-honoured enemy began laughing, the kind of laughter that causes tears to well up in your eyes, your frame wracking almost painfully. Harry waited, allowing him this luxury of laughter.

"You know," remarked Malfoy, finally calming himself. "I'm going to tell you something since I won't hate myself later for saying it."

Harry cocked his head inquisitively, waiting for the declaration. Malfoy lifted his chin haughtily, though he was sniffling, a shadow of his past self. But it was the best he could do, and Harry respected that.

"I really," said Malfoy, " _really_ wish that you had shook my hand that day."

Harry pinched his lips together, holding back a bittersweet smile. So this was where it ended for them. At the beginning.

"Perhaps I would have," he said. "If things had been different."

Malfoy smirked before turning his face skyward.

"See you around, scarhead."

"Sure thing, ferret." Harry drew in a deep breath, grip tightening on his wand, and whispered, " _Obliviate_."

Malfoy's face slackened as all his memories of this revolutionary encounter whispered up and away, untethered from his body and drifting away.

Harry turned and walked away as they meandered lazily around him, like tired birds in flight.

He would forever remember that Draco Malfoy was the catalyst that brought about the beginning of the new world.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

 **For those who saw my update on AO3 (which I have now deleted), my computer has been repaired and is back in my possession, so here I am. Again, I'm sorry for the wait!**

 **I have an important notice – don't worry, I'm not announcing my impending death or anything else which will throw a spanner in the works (again). For the first time, I'm on the lookout for a beta. I've never beta-ed or had a beta, but I have finally swallowed my pride and realised that a second brain and pair of eyes would be useful. I don't expect you to stick around forever, if you get bored of me just let me know and I'll put this message up again. I swear I won't get offended.**

 **If you're thinking,** ** _what's in it for me,_** **I shall list the benefits. Uh, obviously the pleasure of my company, being on semi-personal terms and the privilege of being able to hassle me for new chapters by non-anonymous means.**

 **If I've swayed you with my obvious charisma and you're interested in joining me behind the scenes, please contact me at 'disposabl . e . mail 987 gmail . com' (remove spaces between words and use 'at' symbol). As you may gather from the email name (super creative, I know), it is disposable and I'll be deleting it as soon as I have a permanent beta who will be able to contact me through my actual email. So if you send something to this email address and it bounces back, now you know why. :)**

* * *

12 Grimmauld Place was as silent as a grave when Harry returned, enveloped in the Invisibility Cloak. Hermione and Ron had not yet risen, despite the sun now climbing into the sky. He could barely believe his luck as he shut the front door quietly and removed the cloak, making for the staircase. He could make up a story about how he encountered Malfoy at a different time, then he'd never have to reveal the truth behind his late-night wandering.

Harry placed a foot on the bottom step. It gave an ear-piercing shriek.

He winced, glancing down at the stair then back up again. The only problem was when his gaze returned to the top of the staircase, two very angry figures had appeared. One lanky wizard and one witch whose bushy hair had bristled up like an indignant potato brush.

Fuck.

"Where have you been?" demanded Hermione shrilly, storming down to meet him. Ron tailed her, his face uncharacteristically grave.

"No–" Harry's voice cracked and he grimaced, surreptiously whipping the Invisibility Cloak behind his back. "Nowhere."

He backed down to the ground floor, keeping it hidden from sight.

Hermione stalked after him, hands braced on her hips and eyes flashing.

"Don't lie to us!" she warned, her voice impossibly high. "We've been up for an hour, we thought you'd been taken or worse–"

"You really think that I could be snatched like an infant from a crib?" retorted Harry, mildly offended.

"Your bed was stone cold! You'd been gone all _night_!" Hermione all but shrieked. "What was I meant to think?"

"I couldn't sleep, I just stepped out the door to get some air– _hey_!"

Someone had yanked the Invisibility Cloak from his hands. Ron. He had circled around Harry without his notice.

"Stepped out the door to get some air with this?" asked Ron, raising a sceptical eyebrow. "Give us some credit, mate. Now, would you mind telling us the truth?"

Harry opened and closed his mouth silently for a moment, alternating his gaze between his two friends. Hermione was looking rather pink in the face, Ron's was solemn.

"I–" Harry sighed heavily, dragging a hand through his hair in his now flustered state. "Fine, I'll come clean with you two. I need some space, alright? This place is stifling and I hate being in close quarters with you all the bloody time."

"Well, it's not exactly a holiday for us, either!" spat Hermione, her gaze scathing on him. "You think that we're enjoying ourselves? You don't think that I'm going mad, cooped up in here, that Ron isn't terrified for his family and would do anything to see them again? But that doesn't mean that we just off and disappear during the night, does it?"

Harry glared down at his feet, fingers curling into fists at his side. If only she'd shut up for a second, then he could just _explain_. But her diatribe showed no sign of ceasing.

"Use your head, Harry! I'd have thought that you'd've learned some common sense by now, but _no_ , the Boy-Who-Lived knows best! I can't believe you were so _stupid_ –"

"Hermione," said Ron sharply at last. It was as if he had yanked the rug out from under her feet, whipping away that whirlwind of fury. It dispersed around her like mist.

"I was scared." Her tone dropped to a whisper, the only remnants of her anger the quaver in her voice.

Harry chanced a glance at her. Bright green met dark brown. If he had somehow forgotten the extent of the sheer love and loyalty they had poured into each other the entire year prior, he remembered it now. Staring into Hermione's eyes, Harry saw a deep, dark chasm of memories reflected in hers.

His heart gave a painful twang. He averted his gaze again.

"Sorry," he said.

Hermione made a sound and next thing he knew, her arms were a vice around him, his nose full of bushy hair. Harry hesitated for a split second, but then he saw Ron raise his eyebrows expectantly. With a weary sigh, he allowed his body to release all tension, if only for a little while.

Hermione mumbled something into his shoulder.

"What?" asked Harry. She lifted her face away to glare at him.

"Swear you won't do it again," she said.

"I…" he wavered, knowing that it was a promise that he couldn't keep, not with such a dangerous entity living beneath the very same roof. But with Hermione's attention fixed so fiercely upon him, he crumbled. "I swear. I swear that as long as the option stands, I won't leave you behind again."

His words lowered a leaden cloak of tension back over the group. Ron clapped his hands together loudly.

"Well," he said, clearly attempting a bright tone but failing miserably. "Now that you're back in one piece, Harry–"

"–and have been suitably reprimanded," added Hermione.

"Yeah," said Ron, picking the ball back up. "That too. But as I was about to say, we have news for you."

"I have news for you, too." Harry's words were abrupt. He was still internally reeling from what he had learned from Malfoy barely an hour ago. Hermione ignored him.

"Ginny's owl arrived," she said, eyes hard on Harry and her lips pulled taut. "You know what that means."

All words dissolved on Harry's tongue. The rush of adrenaline from the encounter with Malfoy had wiped away the memory that the Basilisk fangs were expected to arrive this very morning.

"Oh," he said.

There was a pregnant pause. It was clear that they were expecting Harry to fill in the silence, offer a window to his thoughts, but all activity had died in his brain. Total shut down. A ghostly hush swooped over him, spreading across his chest until his heart ached. Ice cold realisation that he would be facing Tom Riddle – not Voldemort, but _Tom Riddle_ , the very one he had grown to love and loathe – sooner rather than later.

Hermione had stepped away from him by now, her arms rising to cross firmly across her chest. There was a furrow in her brow, dark anticipation written in the rigid lines of her body. But what she was anticipating, Harry wasn't entirely sure.

Ron pulled his shoulders into a reluctant shrug.

"We can wait," he managed. It sounded as though he was choking on his words, each catching in his throat before he hacked them up into the space between them. He so desperately wanted to close that rift that had opened between them – this Harry could appreciate, but Hermione had other ideas.

"The longer we wait, the longer we prolong this war," she said, brushing aside Ron's attempt at a diplomatic response. "Now isn't the time to take our personal sentiments into account. But we need to know whether you're able to involve yourself in this duty, Harry, or if you're no longer in commission."

Harry stared at her, the pulse of blood rushing through his ears. The noise flooded his brain, making it impossible to think, to conjure words with any meaning.

The cold light filtering in through a window suddenly seemed impossibly bright, blinding him.

He had known what he was getting himself into when he began the hunt for the Horcruxes, he had known that it would come down to this. But now that he had arrived at this bridge, now that the time had arrived to cross it, he couldn't… he _couldn't_ …

He became dimly aware of a hand on his shoulder, of a distant voice. He was underwater, trapped in the raw, still world of a lake. Blinding light shot through the water surface in narrow streaks, cage bars around him, and he could only hear his own heart, ricocheting against his ribs.

He was a child again, shut in the cupboard beneath the stairs. He was a Triwizard Champion, bound to a headstone in a graveyard. He was a believer, watching as his godfather was snatched from the world of the living before his time. He was a student, frozen still as his mentor fell from a great height like a ragdoll.

He was just a boy, dying in the arms of his greatest enemy.

But somewhere high above on the shoreline, the shadow of a figure was calling for him, or two, and now there was a flock of them, of all the people he had loved and been loved by. Their voices harmonized, wove together like birds in flight, dipping and diving to save him.

"–rry? _Harry_?"

Harry blinked rapidly, returning to himself. His fingers rose to touch the hand on his shoulder – Ron – to reassure himself that he was truly here. Hermione stood by Ron's side, gripping a handful of his robes.

She was looking significantly paler than before.

"Yeah?" Harry grunted, lowering his hand.

"You good, mate?" asked Ron steadily. "You blanked out for a moment there."

Harry stepped out of Ron's reach, rubbing his chest as if that could shed the constricting viper around his heart.

"I'm fine," he said. "It's nothing."

"Then…" there was pause during which Ron exchanged a look with Hermione. "Then what do you say?"

Harry's tongue darted out to wet his chapped lips before glancing down. He could see that his boots were scuffed, his fingers yanking his sleeves down over his knuckles – a nervous tic that he hadn't known he'd adopted until Hermione pointed it out to him.

"I think," he said slowly, as reasonably as he could muster. "I think that I need to try. Hermione's right, I can't let my emotions cloud my judgement anymore. What we're dealing with is bigger than all of us."

He swallowed around a lump in his throat.

A blind man could have noticed the relief that trickled across Hermione's face – it rippled out of her pores in waves. She turned and started back up the stairs, pausing only to say, "I'll prepare everything."

The meaningful stare she directed towards Harry strongly suggested that he should too.

* * *

The locket and the diadem were sitting innocently on the table in the drawing room when Harry and Ron entered. Hermione held a crinkled brown package in one hand – it was likely that it hadn't been that battered up upon arrival.

She cast a sideways glance at the two Horcruxes, stationed side-by-side, before reconsidering their positioning. She swept the diadem up and pinched the bejewelled circlet between her index finger and thumb, holding it away from her.

"When this Horcrux is opened," she said aloud, nodding towards the locket, "I cannot predict what it might do. I'd rather not risk it influencing the other Horcrux and have them play gang ups on us, like some sick schoolyard game–"

"Why not order Kreacher in to keep an eye on it in the meanwhile?" suggested Ron, stepping forwards to relieve her of the diadem. She swung it out of his reach instinctually, her eyes shuttering.

"You _know_ how I feel about giving house-elves orders. This hierarchy which was established by rich old wizards is cruel and barbaric–"

Hardly in the right mindset to put up with her preaching, Harry cupped a hand around his mouth and called, "Kreacher!"

Hermione clucked disapprovingly just as the old house-elf Apparated into view with an ear-splitting _crack_. Harry fell back one step, never quite able to adjust to the speediness with which Kreacher responded.

"How may Kreacher serve you, Master Harry?" Kreacher now croaked, lowering himself into such a deep bow that the tips of his floppy ears grazed the floor.

"Right," said Harry awkwardly, scratching his head. "Could you take that diadem from Hermione – over there, see, the one she's holding – and keep it safe just in case something goes wrong while we're destroying the locket? The one like Reg– Master Regulus's locket, you know?"

Despite her disapproval towards this order, Hermione seemed unable to help herself from interjecting.

"You need to be more specific," she said. "What does 'keeping it safe' even mean?"

"Fine," retorted Harry, his tone sharper than before. "Listen then, Kreacher. If the… if the thing inside the locket has any _detrimental_ side-effects on us, or anything at all goes wrong while we're trying to destroy it, you must ensure that the diadem does not end up in the hands of anyone affiliated with You-Know-Who. And whatever you do, _do not listen to what the diadem tells you._ "

"Understood, Master Harry." Kreacher bowed again, took the diadem from Hermione, then bowed for the third time. "It will be safe with Kreacher. It will be chained up and buried under some maggoty bread until Master Harry calls for it again. Perhaps Kreacher will chop it up with a meat cleaver, then burn the little pieces in–"

"That's not necessary," Harry said quickly. "I don't know whether chopping it up is even possible but… keep it in one piece, please."

Kreacher blinked bloodshot eyes at him slowly, then nodded his head and Disapparated with a clap that resounded through the still air.

Hermione sighed, then held out the package she still clutched firmly.

"Harry," she said, her voice painfully sombre. "Will you be doing the honours?"

Avoiding eye contact with both her and Ron, Harry stepped forward and grimaced down at the parcel. He could now see that someone had already torn it open, exposing yellow-stained fangs the length of a forearm. Gritting his teeth, he plunged his hand past the crinkled paper and wrapped his fingers around a fang.

Unexpectedly, a phantom pain throbbed up his arm, like slow-moving venom. Harry closed his eyes and shuddered.

Ron pushed forward and gripped Harry's shoulder bracingly.

"Maybe he should sit out for the first one," he said to Hermione, but Harry shook his head.

"No," he muttered, his thumb rubbing against the tarnished ivory surface. "I've got to try. I've got to try for all of you."

Silently, though with painful relief flooding the recesses of his face, Ron removed his hand and took a step back.

 _Thank you_.

Hermione retreated with him, her eyes scorching bright, like dark fire in water.

 _I'm sorry_.

These unspoken words of theirs spun around Harry lightly, as if suspended by fine spider web. Delicate, yet able to carry the weight of a thousand sorrows.

The stage was now his.

Harry pressed his lips together, swivelling to gaze upon the quiet locket, perched upon that table. Too quiet. But there was no doubt in his mind that Tom would not go down without a fight.

Without realising that he had drifted forwards, Harry found his fingers lingering mere millimetres above the locket, the thrum of energy searing his skin, travelling through his veins. It seemed to buzz around his mind, bouncing around his skull, filling him up. But unlike last night, it kept its silence.

 _Speak to me_ , Harry wanted to scream, because no matter how furious he was with this man – this monster, this shadow of his past – he missed him.

Tom would be wearing some infuriating, self-satisfied smirk if he could hear Harry's thoughts now. His soft, pale lips would curve upwards, and perhaps some low level of mirth would reach his eyes. Such a rare sight, but when it did happen, Harry's heart would swoop and soar, an unfettered bird, and he could believe that this was love after all.

His pulse had reached a brisk rate, keeping pace with the locket's own internal rhythm.

 _Thrum-da-da, thrum-da-da, thrum-da-da_.

Was it just him, or was the locket heating up, as though in anticipation?

 _Thrum-da-da, thrum-da-da, thrum-da-da_.

He could hear Hermione and Ron breathing somewhere behind him, but it seemed as though a great distance separated them. Perhaps it did.

Unable to bear the suspense of the moment any longer, Harry brushed his fingers over the surface of the locket, drums thundering in his ears, and whispered, _:Open.:_

All at once the drumming stopped. It was disconcerting, as if he had lost all sense of sound, plunged into a silent world.

The locket opened with a tiny pop. All was still for a single breathless moment. Then the room dimmed imperceptibly and a semi-solid shape started to push out of the Horcrux in a cloud of grey mist.

A head, a torso, then legs, poised above them all.

Tall and slender, black hair styled immaculately. Smooth skin, high cheekbones, a perfectly straight nose. Deep, dark eyes, all too easy to drown in.

Tom Riddle looked exactly the same as the day Harry left him behind.

His mouth suddenly dry, Harry faltered a step backwards.

"Stab it now!" Hermione hissed. "Stab it before it can use its silver tongue!"

He could see through his peripheral vision that despite her words, she was just as transfixed by the image before them, face upturned to the beautiful man before them.

But Tom was already speaking.

" _Mon amour_ ," he murmured, and to see those words shaped by his lips again sent an electric shiver down Harry's spine.

"No," he croaked, gripping the Basilisk so hard that his hand ached. His palms were moist with sweat. "This isn't real."

Tom tutted, quirking an eyebrow elegantly. "I suppose that I'm only as real as you make me. How real am I to you, Harry?"

There was a long, drawn out pause. Harry's shallow breaths were torturously loud in his ears. Tom smiled slowly, and there was no need to answer the question aloud.

" _Harry_ ," Hermione whispered, voice barely audible. "Don't listen."

"No," Harry repeated loudly, unable to register her words, brandishing that puny fang as if it could offer him some form of protection from this entity. " _No_. You don't know me, Tom. Don't pretend you do."

Tom laughed, but his face was set into a mask. It was a frightening image, and Harry took yet another step back, another in the wrong direction, away from his fabled enemy.

"Do you love me, Harry?" he crooned, and his voice was so gentle, but his eyes were so hard. "Because how I love you. I want to tear your eyes out of your head so that you may never look upon another man or woman the way I have seen you look at me. I want to rip your heart out of your chest so that I may keep it forever."

Harry's lips parted, but there were no words to say. Tom's eyes softened.

"But I could never inflict damage upon you," he breathed. "And I know that this is a requited sentiment. Lower your weapon, _mon amour_ , and we can be together again."

He didn't even notice that he was nodding his head until he had released the Basilisk fang, listening to it clatter on the floor. Total surrender.

"Don't, Harry." Hermione, her voice weak.

Something rekindled in the pit of his stomach.

He remembered false memories fluttering around his head like feathers in a breeze. He remembered blinding green light and Hermione falling, almost graceful in her descent.

He could not forgive.

"I told you already," Harry said breathlessly. " _You don't know me._ "

The Horcrux's eyes shuttered, giving way to the flat black of a shark's. It lowered itself onto one knee and pushed its face forward so that they were almost nose-to-nose. Not even a breath stirred Harry's hair and he found himself frozen.

"You are indeed a liar, my dear," it said, "a master manipulator, much like myself…"

 _I'm not_ , Harry tried to shout, _I'm nothing like you,_ but with a replica of Tom's face so close to his, his tongue had stuck to the roof of his mouth, curling in on itself.

" _But I have seen your soul_ ," the Horcrux hissed, its voice garbled between Parseltongue and English. Unspeakable pain threatened to split Harry's head in two and he dropped to the ground, yowling as he grabbed his forehead, fingers fisting in his hair.

It was enough to break the spell.

" _That's enough_!" Ron bellowed, lunging past Harry to seize the fang from the floor. Through his delirious vision, Harry saw Ron plunging the sharp end into the locket, and now it wasn't only him screaming, it was the Horcrux, a high, keening wail as it was encompassed by oblivion.

For a split second, Harry's head cleared again. Then he was flooded by a tidal wave of fear and fury because of course Voldemort knew what had happened, and it overwhelmed all his other senses.

Finally, it was over.

Collapsing on his side, his chest heaved in exhaustion and he curled into the fetal position, no longer seeing the world around him.

He hadn't been able to do it. He had failed.

"What's going on? What's happening to him, is it You-Know-Who?"

"No, Ronald, he's in shock."

"But why–"

"We asked too much of him."

An extended silence.

"We never should have done it."

"Isn't hindsight a wonderful thing? Fetch me a Potion for Dreamless Sleep from my bag upstairs. _Quickly now_!"

It abruptly became silent and when the voices finally returned, hands were prompting him to lift his head, pressing a bottle to his lips.

"Drink now, Harry, everything will work out fine." The voice was so soothing, so warm, he could almost believe that it belonged to the mother he never had. "I'll handle everything."

And so he drank, and as he lost grip on what was real and what was not, he believed every word of it.

* * *

When Harry came to himself, he surfaced pleasantly, buoying up on a soft wave in warm water before breaking the surface to face the sun riding high.

Sleepily, he acknowledged the fluffy pillow beneath his head, the scratchy blankets swaddled around him, the sofa beneath him, and was content to drift for a few minutes longer. He hadn't felt this good in a long time, and he lazily wondered how long he had been out for. That was before he remembered everything and promptly turned on his side to bury his face in the pillow, wishing he could forget and bemoaning his own weakness.

"How could I be so stupid," he whispered, his fingers fisting the blanket, tears leaking from his eyes.

By the time he had realised that it wasn't his Tom he had been speaking to, it had been too late.

The door cracked open and misleadingly heavy footsteps approached his side. A croaky voice said, "Master Harry, Kreacher hears that Master Regulus's mission has finally been fulfilled. Kreacher has come to return this to Master Harry."

Harry lifted his head enough to see that the house-elf had extended Ravenclaw's diadem to him in spindly hands. He dropped his head again.

"I don't want it near me," he muttered. "Give it to Hermione."

"Yes, Master Harry."

Receding footsteps, the door clicked shut again. Harry drew in a deep breath, calming his frayed nerves. Muffled voices crept beneath the crack in the door, and when it opened once more, he was ready.

When Ron and Hermione entered the room, they were welcomed by the sight of Harry sitting upright, blankets spilling around his shoulders, grinning like an idiot. Ron actually stopped to stare, perhaps questioning whether the past events had liberated Harry from his last few brain cells.

"So," said Harry in a horrible, hearty voice that wasn't his own. "I suppose congratulations is in order."

"What," said Ron.

"You destroyed the first Horcrux. Congratulations."

"Enough!" Hermione said sharply. "What are you doing?"

The grin slid off Harry's face and he stared at a patch of rotting floorboards sourly.

"Isn't this a triumph for the team?" he asked. "Don't you _want_ me to be part of the team? Since I was a complete and utter disappointment, the least I can do is be supportive of _your_ successes."

"You truly think that we're doing _that_?" Hermione asked, her tone dropping a notch.

"That depends on what you think that I think you're doing," said Harry stubbornly, losing all pretence of cheeriness.

"I _know_ what you're thinking."

"Then hip-hip-bloody-hooray for you," Harry snapped.

"You lost me," said Ron apologetically.

"Emotional range, teaspoon." Hermione didn't bother to face him when she said it. "Harry believes that we're trying to force him into the mould of the heroic 'Chosen One'."

"We're not, Harry, I swear," said Ron immediately, then grimaced. "Well, _I'm_ not, I can't speak for Hermione…"

" _Honestly_ ," she said waspishly before frowning at Harry. "Well? Is my deduction correct?"

"You got it right on the nose." Every word was dripping with sarcasm. "Except, wait a minute. It's not you two who're trying to force me into that mould. It's _me._ "

Hermione opened her mouth, stopped, then closed it again.

"Oh," she said in a very small voice. "I was a little off."

Harry gave a humourless laugh.

"No matter how much you or anyone else want me to be the Chosen One, the great vanquisher of the Dark Lord, I know that nobody will ever be as disappointed as me when I can't do it. I wish we'd never ended up in some time-travel freak accident. If we hadn't–" he scrubbed furiously at his eyes. "If we hadn't, You-Know-Who and I would never have had a history. He wouldn't have dirt on me, I'd be able to face him with my head held high, but instead I become a pitiful wreck when faced by the mere _memory_ of him. I'm–"

His voice broke. Hermione and Ron spoke up at the same time.

"Harry–"

"You don't have to–"

"Shut up," he said fiercely. "I've got to say it. _I'm sorry, but I can't kill him._ "

He tipped his head back to glare at the ceiling, blinking tears from his eyes. Let them hate him. Nobody could hate him more than himself, anyway.

He heard Hermione choke on a watery laugh.

"You're such an idiot," she whispered. "If only you'd stop letting your mouth run away from you and just listen for a moment."

Bewildered, Harry brought his gaze back to them.

"What?"

Ron was beaming.

"You may not have to kill him," he said. "We've been searching all year in private – Hermione mostly, and there may be another way."

"But we mustn't get our hopes up." Hermione was smiling too, belying her attempt at pragmatism. "We didn't want to tell you what we were doing in case we couldn't find anything, but I think I've finally cracked the code. At least, the first level of it, but it's more than we had before."

Harry continued to gape at them, not quite registering their words, too fearful to believe. Surely they were due to laugh in his face at any moment and scold him for believing their cruel joke.

"What're you saying?" he asked hoarsely.

Hermione slapped a hand to her forehead.

"Of course, I'll give you the book, it'll clear everything up," she babbled. "Some may consider it a little dry of a read, but I personally enjoyed it, though it did take me a few days to read. It should clear everything up, yes, you should definitely read it. _Accio_!"

She swished her wand and a moment later, a book came zipping into her hand. It was a very familiar book, but Harry was loath to admit that he had flipped through it before.

" _Tales from Beyond_ ," she announced, brandishing it in his face. "Here."

She all but shoved it into his chest. That would surely bruise later. Ron winced on Harry's behalf, but he barely registered the brief burn of pain. He was staring down at the book, unable to believe that this could be the answer to all his troubles.

"I still don't understand," he said haltingly.

"Neither do I," said Hermione fretfully, "not completely. That's why we're leaving. How does tomorrow sound?"

"The sooner the better," said Ron. "I can't wait to leave this place."

"But we can't let our guard slip in our haste," she said chidingly, as if it had been his idea to leave immediately. "This will be dangerous. _Very_ dangerous. And we'll have to pack supplies, who knows how long we'll be on the road…"

"Kreacher can handle our supplies."

"Oh, Ron, we shouldn't rely on him to do all our work. Speaking of which, should we bring him with us or…?"

"Are you kidding me? Kreacher'll rip his ears off and eat them before he leaves Grimmauld Place for more than a minute."

"You shouldn't exaggerate," said Hermione, "but I suppose there is some truth to your words. Oh dear, I'll ask him anyway… now, I'm going to pack my books, I've got something on the international Floo Network somewhere, I know I do…"

"I'll get Kreacher started," added Ron, and they both made to rush out the door.

Harry, whose eyes had been volleying between them the whole while, finally piped up, "Can somebody _please_ explain to me what's going on before you run off like headless chooks?"

Both glanced around at him in surprise, having forgotten that he was rather behind on everything.

"How silly of me," Hermione declared. "We're going to Australia!"

Ron clapped his hands eagerly and bustled away, muttering, "Finally doing something productive…"

" _What for_?" Harry squawked, not nearly as pleased as his friend.

"If we're going to time-travel again," Hermione said, already halfway out the door, "We're going to need the help of the author of that book, Hardwin Fjord."

* * *

 **Again, if you're interested in beta-ing, please refer to author's note at top of page. :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

 **Soooo… this chapter's pretty long overdue. Yikes. This message is also super late, but thank you for all expressions of interest for betaing, I got more responses than I hoped thought but unfortunately I can't have all of you!**

 **Anyway, this chapter was betaed by the lovely Nothinglikeyou.**

* * *

"Ugh," said Ron, picking at the peeling skin on his nose and flicking a flake away. " _Ugh_. 'Mione, it's happened again."

"We've got to keep moving," Hermione said, exasperatedly pointing her wand at the musty old handkerchief they had been following. It froze where it hovered and she turned on her heel, heading back to meet him a few paces behind where she and Harry had been waiting.

"Not my fault I'm the colour of an albino Grindylow's belly," Ron said sharply. "Complain all you want, but nobody's suffering more than me."

Harry rolled his eyes, taking the opportunity to drain his water bottle into his mouth while Hermione healed Ron's recurring case of sunburn. Each of them was applying sunscreen at regular intervals, all the while wearing gigantic broad-brimmed hats that looked ridiculous and long-sleeve flannel shirts to minimise sun exposure (not even to mention the assortment of charms Hermione had cast on them), but Ron was simply too white. Harry and Hermione, both of darker skin tones, were having far fewer issues and neither were nearly as sympathetic as Ron would have liked.

"Oh, you shouldn't have picked it," Hermione bemoaned, evaluating Ron's erythematous face. "I've told you about a dozen times already…"

"It's itchy," Ron said defensively, then added quickly, "You can still heal it, yeah?"

"Of course I can, it's just unsightly," said Hermione briskly, fishing her wand out of her pocket. " _Tempus revelio_."

A few long ribbons shot out from the end of her wand, fashioning themselves into a set of numbers. She evaluated the numbers with a furrowed brow, her lips pursed.

"C'mon, Hermione," chided Ron. "It's already past noon, we need to take a break at some point."

"But it's so open out here," she said, casting a wary eye about them. "I'm not comfortable with this."

"So cast a few enchantments if you're nervous." He was already lowering himself down on a rock, letting out a grateful moan as he did so, dumping his pack on the ground next to him. "Maybe it hasn't registered in your brilliant mind yet, but we're in the middle of nowhere. Merlin, I despise this place."

"We're a week's trek from Alice Springs," said Hermione scathingly.

"Like I said." Ron rifled through his pack and pulled out a parcel of wrapped sandwiches. "The middle of nowhere."

"We do need to eat at some point," Harry reasoned when Hermione cast him a look.

"Hear, hear," said Ron.

"Fine." Hermione raised her hands in surrender. " _Fine_."

She stalked off to perform some protective enchantments on the surrounding area, though not before throwing Ron a disdainful glance as he dug into their lunch.

"You know," he remarked to Harry around a mouthful of ham and chicken sandwich, "I don't _actually_ despise this place. It's just the heat I can't deal with. Tanzania was alright, actually, but I didn't like _Vicky_ … it's just that the further north we go, the more I resemble–"

"A tomato frog?" Harry suggested, cracking a smile and accepting the sandwich Ron passed him. It was refreshingly cold, having been kept fresh by several cooling charms.

As soon as they had entered the state of Victoria about a month ago, Ron had taken an immediate disliking to it – possibly because it reminded him of a certain Bulgarian wizard.

Hermione joined them, and, having overheard the conversation, immediately said, "It's not Tanzania – that's an entirely different country. It's _Tasmania_ , and the reason it's hotter up here is because we're nearer the equator. It's all got to do with the sun's slant angles and–"

"Can you heal my burn now?" Ron asked.

Looking increasingly annoyed, Hermione tapped his face and said, " _Episkey_!"

Harry focussed on his food, having seen her heal a sunburn many times already. He waited for the additional, " _Pellis praesidio_ ," which followed a few seconds later.

"Now," said Hermione, wiping her hands clean and helping herself to their lunch. "My tracking spell estimates that we have another day of walking before we reach our destination, whatever that may be."

At her words, Harry glanced over his shoulder at the handkerchief, dangling there as if attached to invisible strings and flittering in a non-existent breeze. It was a manky old thing and he refused to touch it for fear of contracting a disease from it. Back in its heyday it had surely been quite fine, crisp white with delicate embroidery around the border and the initials _P.R.L._ sewn in. It was a miracle they had even found so much.

With the assistance of the _about the author_ page at the end of _Tales from Beyond_ , they had made their way into Fjord's then-hometown, Portland. After interrogating the residents (alongside no small about of bribery in the form of money), they finally narrowed in on a small, rundown house in Portland where they were told Hardwin Fjord once lived. Since it was their only lead, Hermione had cast a tracking spell on it to find its owner and they followed it like puppies of varying faithfulness.

"Besides," Hermione had said that day, "Even if it doesn't belong to Fjord, it might lead us to someone who knows where he is."

Harry had nothing to say to that. So far, the hunt for the author of _Tales from Beyond_ proved to be futile, an impossible quest. They may as well have been searching for a ghost for all the luck that they had. He privately thought that they would be lucky if he was dead. Ron was much more vocal about the matter, and he was saying so now.

"But it was only published five or so years ago," Hermione insisted, tugging the brim of her hat lower to shield her eyes from the sun. "Fjord can't be far away."

"A lot can happen in five years," said Harry quietly. "Especially these past five years. Wasn't that book released only months before Volde– for Merlin's sake, Ron – before _You-Know-Who_ returned? Maybe You-Know-Who abducted him, like Ollivander. He'd be a valuable asset, after all."

"I maintain that death would be kinder to the bloke," Ron piped up. "Anyway, we've been searching for _weeks_. Dead end after dead end, and what've we got from it? All we've found to prove that a Hardwin Fjord ever did once live is a handkerchief that may or may not have belonged to him."

Hermione sat in silence for a long moment, a furrow between her eyebrows. A bird shrieked somewhere overhead, drawing her back into the moment and she scowled.

"We've been sitting still for too long. Let's go."

"It's been five minutes!" Ron protested.

"I don't care, we're practically sitting ducks," Hermione snapped back, throwing herself to her feet and storming away. She jabbed her wand at the handkerchief and it gave a little shiver, shaking itself off before continuing on its merry way.

Without a backwards glance, she followed at its heel.

"She's in a real mood today," muttered Ron, heaving his pack onto his back and waiting for Harry to do the same. "She just doesn't want to admit that we're right."

As they trekked through the red earth, kicking up clouds of dust in their wake and wiping sweat off their foreheads, Harry remained silent. Truth be told, he didn't want them to be right either. If Fjord truly was gone, then that left them to return to Horcrux hunting, and Harry had already proved his worth in that field.

* * *

The following days were uneventful. Hermione became more taciturn than usual. When she wasn't doggedly following that manky piece of cloth with Harry and Ron in tow, she was settled a small distance from them, her face stuck in _Tales from Beyond_ despite having read it at least five times, occasionally throwing worried glances skyward. It was clear she was expecting Voldemort's Death Eaters to descend upon them at any given time.

When Harry closed his eyes, however briefly, even during broad daylight, he could envision them starting as flittering dots, framed by the sun. They would then gradually develop from insignificant sand flies to large black smears, each an individual finger on a hand leaping down to cage them between talons.

It was worse at night when there was no sun to give them forewarning.

Yet there remained not even a whisper that their location had been leaked. It was all too still, too quiet. The calm before a storm.

Harry had come to rely on Ron's constant commentary, his wisecracks, and quips, to keep his mood elevated (at least above its default state, which wasn't a difficult task), but after the drag of several long, dull weeks it was finally setting in – even for Ron – what a truly epic journey this was.

All words shrivelled up and died, save Ron's occasional complaint about sunburn, and the three of them trekked in silence, fear of what awaited them at the end of the line looming over them.

If nothing else, it gave Harry all the time in the world with the thoughts in his head. Memories of their expedition flicked back and forth, a poor parody of those cheap, cheesy travel montages slapped together in some tween girl's scrapbook.

It was over a month ago that Hermione first pushed _Tales from Beyond_ into Harry's hands and he read it through over breakfast, lunch, dinner and deep into the night. He found it to be a ridiculous read, exactly what its title claimed it to be – a tale, and a fanciful one at that.

It dabbled with the mysterious matter of time.

Fixed timelines, dynamic timelines, alternate timelines, paradoxes. Harry didn't understand half of what was written, it was so backwards and convoluted and impossible to tell which way was right side up.

Despite being written like an academic text and its critical acclaim, even the readership saw it for what it was. Entirely fictitious, theoretical at best.

But Hermione was for one a believer, Harry and Ron the sceptics trailing behind. How the tables had turned. She was so certain if they could find the author, perhaps he could explain things to them and reveal the mystery behind his greatest work. Perhaps they could fix this fucked up timeline so it was never meant to be.

It was a fantasy Harry could indulge in, at least until the dream was shattered at the end of the journey.

It was too great a risk to attempt to sneak through the International Floo Network into the borders of Australia and too great a distance to Apparate, even if any of them were familiar with the country on the other side of the world. In the end, it had been easy enough a job to intercept and Stun several Muggles in the nearest airport, taking their passports – Giles Herman, Poppy Walmsley, and Frank Butler were the unfortunate three – and a handful of hairs for the Polyjuice Potion, proceeding to steal their places on the flight from London to Sydney. Easy a job but less easy on the conscience – Hermione and Ron made the Muggles as comfortable as possible in the airport bathrooms, and Harry left each with as many Galleons as he dared to spare, hoping they'd be able to exchange the gold for the stolen flight money.

Under the guise of Giles, Poppy and Frank, Harry, Hermione and Ron snuck across the border between the two countries and had not looked back since.

Travelling about took much longer than someone like Ron was accustomed to. Growing up in Muggle households meant that Harry and Hermione were familiar with Muggle cars and buses, or simply travelling on foot where it was necessary since Apparition was impossible in unfamiliar territory. None of them were willing to step foot into the wizarding world either, beyond Hermione gingerly entering a wizards' currency exchange centre to trade in a handful of Galleons, Sickles and Knuts for Muggle cash.

"It's safer in the long run," she reasoned against Harry and Ron's protests. "If we make it so that we can live in the Muggle world, we'll leave fewer traces in systems You-Know-Who may be tracking. Besides, he doesn't seem to have gotten his claws into the Australian ministry yet, so if I just dip in quickly now…"

It was true. Australia seemed completely untouched – at least, from what Harry observed from the outside. Whenever they moved through populated areas he would watch civilians from beneath his Invisibility Cloak, one eye ensuring he didn't lose his companions and the other focused on his surroundings.

The communities here were sunny and cheerful. Harry caught sight of witches and wizards mingling with the Muggles without a care in the world, distinguishing them due to the cloaks they wore and the quiet words that were exchanged on street corners and behind hands. If it weren't for these words he overheard, Harry could almost have passed off the events back home as the memory of a childhood nightmare, melting away beneath the warm Australian sun.

"Sounds like a repeat of the First Wizarding War."

"Reckon it'll reach us this time?"

"Maybe. Rumour has it we'll start conscripting over seventeens to head over and intercept at this rate."

"That's a suicide mission."

When he overheard such whispers, the warmth leeched from Harry's bones and he shivered, clutching the Invisibility Cloak around him as if it could provide him some comfort. If Hermione and Ron were listening too, they gave no sign.

* * *

The trail of breadcrumbs was finally leading to an end.

With sundown upon them, Hermione wearily took her wand out and pointed it at the handkerchief, which was significantly less perky than it had been a few days ago.

Jerking her head at its droopy state, she said, "I think we're going to find its owner sometime tomorrow."

"Yeah, a gravestone," said Ron.

Hermione glared at him, then sighed.

"Gravestone or not," she said, "this is it."

"Unless that handkerchief was never Fjord's to begin with."

" _Please_ , Ronald."

"Look, I'm sorry." He ran an exasperated hand through his hair, his face glowing with sweat against the golden sky. "I just don't want you to be disappointed if we don't, you know, find what you think we will."

The irritation pulling the lines of Hermione's face taut vanished, and her features collapsed momentarily before she yanked back on the mask of a stiff upper lip.

"I apologise if you're waiting for me to lose hope," she said coldly, "but there's plenty of time for that later."

She whirled around stalked off, setting about with casting the enchantments around them.

"I didn't… mean that…" Ron watched her leave helplessly. After a moment, he set his jaw and made to follow her.

"Leave it," Harry said, parking himself beneath the charred corpse of a tree nearby.

"But–"

"You know perfectly well that she needs to cool off before you can talk or she'll take everything as an offense."

Ron stared at Harry for a long few seconds, the latter's face set in shadow, before sighing and joining him beneath the tree, dragging the hat off his head. They watched Hermione as she paused in the distance and held up her wand. She was far out of earshot but Harry could imagine the spells she was casting – he'd heard them so often.

Once it was obvious Ron would not be starting them on their dinner, Harry pulled his pack onto his lap and took out another set of sandwiches. He silently handed some across to Ron, who accepted them with only a small grimace. Any food was better than no food, even if they had been living on stale sandwiches for weeks on end.

"'Mione," Harry called out and held up the sandwiches when she turned. She gave a nod, returning to finish her job.

Ron took a lacklustre bite of his sandwich, then chuckled a little.

"Corned beef," he said. "That takes me back."

They both chewed in silence for another drawn-out moment, the only noise was the chirruping of crickets, a sorrowful birdcall in the far off distance.

"What was it like?" Ron asked suddenly, abruptly, startling Harry from his thoughts.

"What?"

"You know." Ron stared down at the ground, the tips of his ears looking suspiciously red. "Back in 1940."

"1944, 1945."

"Yeah. Then." He took another bite, passed a cautious sideways glance at Harry when all he received was silence. "You don't have to tell me if it brings back bad memories. Figured there's a reason why you guys have never told me anything much."

"It's just weird to talk about," Harry said finally, twisting his scarred fingers around. "It doesn't seem like something we _can_ talk about. You know that feeling when you wake up in the morning after a real exciting night, or after you did something wild or unexpected? Then when you open your eyes the next morning, you're back in your bed and it's quiet and still, as if nothing at all happened in the world? And even if you talk about it with anyone, it feels distant somehow, and you know that from then on it'll only ever really live on in your memories, you know that it's been lost in the sands of time? That's why we don't speak about it."

Ron didn't say anything, considering Harry's words, when an unbidden, soft smile touched upon Harry's mouth.

"It wasn't a walk in the park," he said, meeting Ron's gaze straight on, "but it wasn't all bad memories either."

"I'm glad," Ron said quietly.

"What's this?" asked Hermione, settling across from them, the solemn atmosphere having apparently broken her stony mood.

"Say, Hermione," Harry said, struck by an idea. "What's your happiest memory from back in the day?"

"Back in the day?" The meaning behind the question was clear and she huffed. Her face was sweaty and smeared with red earth, her exhaustion palpable. Far from the right mood to play along with this game.

 _Please_ , Harry pleaded silently, urging it to show in his eyes. _One night is all I ask._

Hermione alternated her eyes from Harry's sad gaze to Ron's eager one, an expression he was attempting to hide poorly. With a sigh, she tugged the broad-rimmed hat off her head and stuffed it onto the ground by her side, contemplating the question for a short while.

She would indulge him this once.

"It's hard to say," she said finally.

A slow grin spread across Ron's face, evidently amazed he would be hearing some of their stories at last. He shuffled across to sit closer to her, Harry also moving forward to complete the circlet they made.

"It's not much," Hermione began, furrowing her brow as she thought, "but maybe that time you fed Umbridge false information about – what was it again – the Smokescreen Spell, I think? She seemed so devoted to you, too."

" _Umbridge_?" Ron choked on a laugh. "You met _Umbridge_?"

"Yeah, she was in her first year." Harry scowled at Hermione without any real malice. "I'm surprised. You proceeded to immediately reveal me to her, if I do recall correctly. In fact, every single time I did something to her you reprimanded me like a problem child!"

She shrugged.

"Because you were acting like a problem child. But with hindsight, it's hilarious."

"Why would you reprimand him for pranking the toad with the pink bow?" asked Ron incredulously. "Merlin, if I'd been there…"

"You'd have had my back, I know," said Harry, bumping their shoulders together and they grinned at each other, a semblance of the old days.

Hermione smiled at them softly before turning her face skyward. The cognac-coloured sky, the shimmer of the sinking butter-yellow sun shone out from her eyes.

"But I don't suppose that's a _happy_ memory per se." She drew in a deep breath, her gaze glazed over momentarily, staring into the realm of the past. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet. "The day leading up to the Christmas party. I asked that you spend it with me, and I'll forever remain gad for those hours we spent together. I truly believe that was the last time I ever spent with you before you became his."

Harry swallowed, a shallow noise in his ears.

"I was never his," he whispered. "Never really."

Hermione looked down at her hands and did not respond. Something shimmered in the corners of her eyes, but when she looked back up, they were gone.

"How about you, then?" she asked, a valiant attempt to steer the conversation elsewhere. "What's your happiest memory?"

Harry's heart stuttered a beat. His happiest memory was from the same day as Hermione's, but it was not the same one. When she smiled at him gently, Harry knew that she had seen it in his eyes but would not break his silence.

No. Each and every story in the world was told for a different person, a different audience. The memories he shared with Tom Riddle were not tales meant for this gathering.

Forcing a laugh, Harry inclined his head towards Ron.

"I don't know about happiest, but this one's half decent. On our first day of classes, Hermione threw down the gauntlet in front of You-Know-Who. Challenged him for his position as top Potions student."

It wasn't hard for Hermione to miss his referral to Tom as You-Know-Who – she flickered a glance in his direction as he said the words, but he ignored it. It was easier this way.

Ron missed the brief exchange, his jaw dropping almost comically as he swivelled to stare at Hermione, examining her as if he had never seen her before. To her credit, she barely squirmed beneath the intense gaze despite being clearly flustered.

"You– how– why– absolutely _brilliant_ ," he managed around his unhinged jaw. "Completely bonkers, of course, but brilliant nonetheless…"

"Thank you, Ronald," she said in a dignified tone.

"Merlin's floppy ball sack, I've got myself a real fighter," Ron pondered aloud, then went bright red, stammering out, "Did you hear that? I wasn't meant to say that – not that there's anything wrong with saying it, it's completely true, I mean! You're obviously a fighter, but challenging _You-Know-Who_ takes extra guts and obviously you're also terribly smart and sometimes I wonder how you put up with a dimwit like me and you've also got nice skin and I don't know why I'm still talking."

The babbling abruptly cut short, leaving only a mortified silence.

Harry couldn't bear to remove the hand clapped over his eyes.

"Oh my goodness," said Hermione, and somehow her voice was blushing as much as her face surely was.

"Kiss and make up," Harry offered blindly into the dark cover of his palm and fingers.

"Don't be ridiculous." He heard Hermione standing up, all in a flurry. "There's no need to make up or… or _kiss_ , Harry, I'm just going to go read over here."

Only once the clomp of boots on dirt faded out of earshot did Harry un-blindfold himself and face Ron, who looked as if he'd rather eat a Flobberworm then meet Harry's eye.

"Solid attempt, mate," Harry said.

"Please don't talk to me."

"I'm serious, it was solid." He commended himself for sniggering only a little. "Have you even asked her out yet?"

"Oh yeah, definitely," said Ron. "I've definitely nipped in a request for her hand in marriage between trekking through this hellhole and trying to prevent my face from burning clean off."

Harry's smirk grew only wider.

"I don't recall ever saying anything about her hand in marriage."

Ron jumped to his feet, simultaneously throwing his hat to the ground.

" _Fuck_!"

Harry climbed to his feet, put his hands on Ron's shoulders, lowered his eyelashes and purred, " _You've got nice skin."_

Ron shoved him back but at least he was laughing now.

It was, in Harry's honest opinion, not a bad way to spend their last night.

* * *

It was only midday when the handkerchief with the lettering _P.R.L._ dropped itself on the doorstep of a ramshackle tin shack in the shade of a ghostly gum.

The sun was beating down, a million sharp daggers on Harry's skin despite the protective layers he wore, and never in his life had he been gladder to see proper shade.

They all paused a distance from the shack, watching the grimy smear of handkerchief from where they stood. The shack did not implode, no one made to exit it. There was a single window visible, curtains shuttering the interior from view. Not a soul stirred. It was impossible to tell whether the place was still inhabited.

The tin walls were coated with rust and grime. There was a rickety rotary clothesline outside, its hinges creaking as it swayed into the lightest of breezes. It had not been used in many years. The garden, if that wasn't too generous a term to use, was nothing but dry brown grass, choking in weeds.

It was a sorry state.

"At least the handkerchief looks like it belongs there," remarked Ron after the three of them had stood there for a short while, regarding the rundown state of the property in dismay.

Harry snorted.

"Don't be rude," Hermione hissed. "Someone probably lives here. Now, Polyjuice, and Harry, your cloak."

He was loath to put on another layer in this sweltering heat but did so obediently, vanishing from view as Hermione and Ron took swigs of Polyjuice Potion from their respective flasks, shuddering as they morphed into Poppy Walmsley and Frank Butler, a middle-aged woman with a hooked nose and a curly-haired youth of no more than their own age.

"You let me do the talking," Hermione ordered Ron in an undertone. "Pretend I'm your mother if asked, and Harry, stay close but do _not_ reveal yourself. In fact, take some of your Polyjuice too, just in case."

"I don't need both," Harry snapped back.

"On your own head," she quipped back, taking _Tales from Beyond_ out of her pack and tucking it under an arm. "Now follow my lead."

She was trembling with barely contained anticipation as they advanced upon the door and it almost would have been funny if Harry's own heart hadn't been pounding like a drum in his ears, beating _this-is-it_ , _this-is-it_ , _this-is-it_ on repeat.

The door was also tin. It had once been painted green, but the colour had been abraded off in most places. It didn't match the rest of the tin shack. A mismatched jigsaw piece in an otherwise complete puzzle.

Hermione raised a fist and rapped on the door smartly.

His pulse rushing in his head, Harry strained his ears for any movement on the other side of the door. But to no avail.

Seconds ticked by. His heart rate slowed, his senses no longer overwhelmed.

"There's no one here," he murmured, heart leaden, and began to tug the Invisibility Cloak off.

The green tin door squeaked open a fraction.

Hermione made a noise in the back of her throat, Ron flinched, Harry floundered to cover himself up again.

"What do you want?" a deep voice rumbled through the door, held barely ajar.

"Um." Hermione, thrown off kilter, took a full second to attempt to pull her act together again. When she spoke again, her words still did not match that of a mature-aged woman. "Um, are you Hardwin Fjord, sir?"

Harry cringed. The voice of a schoolgirl.

A pause.

"Who's asking?" It was a rough sort of voice, husky with age, and it occurred to Harry for a split second that this voice reminded him of someone. He was filled with the strangest sense of _je ne sais quoi_ , and it threatened to take his breath away with the intensity of it.

"My name is Her– Poppy, Mr. Fjord," Hermione jabbered, the thrill evident in her voice despite her slip-up. "This is my son, uh…"

"Frank," Ron offered, much cleaner in his act than she was. "It's an honour to meet you, sir."

If they could even call this a meeting – Hermione and Ron talking through the crack in the door.

"Hoppy, eh," said Fjord, the crack widening a smidgeon more. His voice was significantly less belligerent than before, a note of curiosity to be heard.

"Hoppy, sir?" repeated Hermione in bewilderment.

"Your name." The writer's tone made it clear he was questioning her sanity. "I believe you stated your name to be Hoppy. Interesting name."

Ron's shoulders were trembling stiffly, as if he was withholding a sneeze.

"Oh yes, Hoppy," said Hermione faintly. "Yes, that's me."

"Sounds more as though it belongs to a house-elf."

Those words immediately grounded Hermione and her back straightened, her voice becoming iron.

"House-elves are misunderstood creatures deserving of so much more than the cards they have been dealt," she blazoned, "and there is no dishonour in bearing the name of one."

"Hm, right," said Fjord, a smirk evident in his voice, and this time he opened the door entirely. His expression was one of a cat who had got the cream. "Two birds with one stone there – you're wizarding folk and you're not on the Dark side. So what exactly do you want from me?"

Hardwin Fjord must have been at least seventy years old. Beneath the lines of age and the drooping skin were hints of past beauty, and while his shoulder-length hair was mostly a grisly grey, there were still threads of auburn shot through.

He was dressed luxuriously in fluttery navy blue robes and he held his willowy form with grace. He looked extraordinarily like royalty for a person living in squalor, but upon glimpsing the inside of the shack over his shoulder, Harry immediately understood that the exterior of the house served as nothing more than the illusion of poverty.

This was a mansion in disguise. A long, marbled corridor sat behind the old writer, well-lit with golden candles mounted on the walls. A royal-blue Persian rug with tassels stretched down the length of the corridor, and a cool breeze swept outwards, touching Harry's face, damp with sweat.

"We only wish to ask you a few questions, Mr. Fjord, if you're open to that," said Hermione, and she held up _Tales from Beyond_.

Fjord stared at the cover for a very long moment. The hint of amusement he had worn on his face moments ago slid off and his black, black eyes shuttered. A chord struck in Harry's heart, a chord that whispered the promise of ' _this is a man you once knew_ '.

"I never should have written that book," Fjord said, something akin to grief creeping into his voice. "It has brought nothing but misfortune to my doorstep."

"But… it's wonderful." Hermione lowered the book, her head cocked questioningly to the side. "It's critically acclaimed, it's on its way to becoming a household name among the greats like _A History of Magic_ and–"

"You wouldn't understand." Fjord's voice trembled with emotion, he braced himself against the doorframe to support his weight. "You _couldn_ 't understand, you're far too young to have seen enough of the world."

"But I'm fifty-six," said Hermione, not in the least bit convincing.

Fjord shook his head but there was no anger drawn into the lines of his face when he said, "Don't take me as a fool. I am capable of recognizing a person uncomfortable in the skin granted to them by Polyjuice Potion. Now, I would ask you how you found me all the way from England, but I'd rather you leave me in peace."

It was a dismissal if ever Harry had heard one.

"Please, we just want to know–"

"We're not leaving until you–"

Hermione and Ron spoke rapidly in unison, all too aware that the elusive Hardwin Fjord was slipping through their fingers like smoke. But the more they tried to grab hold, the faster he slipped away, and it felt as though Harry's lungs were filling with water.

"I am tired of entertaining you," he said, retreating into his lavish home and starting to close the door once more. "Kindly remove yourselves from my property."

" _Please_ ," Hermione begged.

Taken aback by her plea, Fjord's gaze flickered back up.

When they did, they seemed to latch onto Harry's for a minute moment in time, green into black and black into green, eyes as dark as sin.

His lungs recoiled, no longer drowning in water, and it was as though he was drifting, weightless, the chords in his heart strumming the immortal words ' _at last_ '.

As if in a dream, Harry's fingers loosened around the Invisibility Cloak, releasing it, letting it slip and slide like silk, pooling in a glistening pond around his feet.

Fjord was frozen in the doorway, gaze locked onto Harry's, his face was a mask of ice.

Hermione let loose a horrified squeak. Ron moved as if to leap in front of Harry, but Harry was already gliding past them and towards the wide-open doorway, that deliciously cool breeze from inside washing over him and drawing him a few steps closer home.

He flicked his wand at the ground idly, lazily, trapped in this slow-moving world. The handkerchief that had been their guide leapt to attention and, without breaking eye contact, Harry directed it to hover above their heads. The embroidered letters _P.R.L_. hung above them, an unapologetic banner of the past.

The old man before him drew in a shaky breath, his eyes glossy and bright.

"Hardwin?" he asked, and his voice broke halfway through.

Gently, as if handling finely spun ice, Harry reached out a single hand to cradle his dear friend's cheek.

"Peregrine," he said.

* * *

 **I should probably officially warn you that the updates from here on are going to be super irregular. Like,** ** _super_** **irregular. :( But life calls, man.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

 **Yo, it's been a while again. Thanks for stopping by!**

 **Once again, this chapter was betaed by Nothinglikeyou. Everybody, say thank you to her for polishing up my extraordinarily ordinary writing!**

* * *

" _Peregrine_ –?" Hermione murmured aloud, disbelief colouring her voice. "As in Peregrine _Lestrange_?"

The man in question brought his hand up to cover Harry's against his cheek, tears unravelling down his face like finely spun silk. The skin felt like parchment beneath Harry's palm.

"You haven't aged a day," the once-Slytherin whispered, his eyes devouring every inch of Harry's features.

"I wish I could say the same to you," Harry whispered back, "but you've got old."

Peregrine choked on a laugh, releasing Harry's hand and embracing him instead. His body was warm and solid, real. An actual living person from Harry and Hermione's impossible adventure. If ever Harry had doubted his own sanity, this was the nail in the coffin proving that none of it had been a dream after all.

The handkerchief trembled above them for a split second, as though exhaling for the first time in many years, then collapsed upon the ground, forgotten once more.

"Can someone please explain to me what the bloody hell is going on here?" said Ron, more annoyed than anything.

Harry pulled away from Peregrine reluctantly but did not release his sleeve. An unwelcome image of a child lost in a store and finally reunited with his mother cropped up in his mind's eye. Waving it away, Harry glanced in Ron's direction. He was standing there with his arms crossed and an expression of great suspicion scrawled across his borrowed face.

"Ron," Harry said, "this is one of my old friends, Peregrine Lestrange."

Ron's jaw went slack momentarily before he recovered himself.

" _Lestrange_ ," he muttered, sliding a weary hand down the side of his face. "Merlin, I'm never going to get over the fact that you actually became a snake."

"Is there an issue with that?" asked Peregrine, his face hard. Suddenly his younger self was shining through and Harry had no idea how he hadn't recognized him earlier. "Harry was amongst the best of us."

"Yeah?" Ron countered. "Considering how you lot rank each other, that's not saying much. No offence, mate," he added to Harry, who shrugged.

"Boys, boys, you're both pretty," said Hermione irritably. "But right now there are more pressing matters to address."

"Might I ask whether your name is actually Hoppy?" asked Peregrine, though not without one last disdainful sniff in Ron's direction.

Hermione coloured.

"It's not actually Hoppy, it's Poppy," she said, before hurriedly tacking on at the end, "And it's not really Poppy either, it's Hermione. I doubt you'd remember me, but I'm Harry's cousin– well, not really his cousin but I was pretending to be when we met… you may recall the whole fiasco that ensued when this was uncovered, it was an awful mess–"

Peregrine's tired face immediately brightened. It was astounding how much younger he looked in that moment. A veil seemed to lift from Harry's eyes. It was as though he was gazing upon that seventeen-year-old boy from so long ago, and always had been.

"But how could I ever forget you, my dear?" Peregrine was saying. Had these exact words been spoken during their school days together, there was no doubt Harry would have interpreted it as nothing short of flirtatious. Now it seemed like a fond grandfatherly statement. This realisation rattled Harry to his core. His grip on Peregrine's sleeve tightened almost imperceptibly, but Peregrine seemed to notice it at last. He glanced down at Harry's hand, forming a cross-bridge between them, and smiled softly but said nothing.

"Well, it _has_ been a while," countered Hermione politely, taking no notice of the silent exchange between Harry and Peregrine. Her tone of voice was of someone speaking to an old acquaintance they'd never cared for much.

"I must ask when will that hideous Polyjuice be wearing off, I've rather missed your actual face," he said, and this time there was a distinctly less grandfatherly purr in his voice.

Hermione started to puff up indignantly. Ron made a sputtering noise like a balloon letting out air.

" _Please_ don't tell me you two fancied each other," he demanded.

"Don't be ridiculous, Ronald!" snapped Hermione, in unison with Peregrine saying, "Unfortunately, lovely Hermione was too busy making enemies with the Dark Lord."

If Harry's mood had lightened even the slightest amount at the discovery of Peregrine Lestrange, it rapidly deflated at the mention of the name. He glanced skyward, and Hermione and Ron followed suite.

"Speaking of your Dark Lord," said Hermione, levelling her gaze upon Peregrine as she spoke, "would you care to explain why you're not at least a little shocked at the sight of us, since last you saw of us was when we died by his hand?"

Peregrine's face stilled, sweeping clear of emotion.

"Perhaps you should come inside," he said, stepping to the side of the doorway into his house. "I never like to remain out in the open for too long. Walls have ears. Trees have ears. _Handkerchiefs_ have ears, for all we know. Ah, yes, that would be a smart little trick, wouldn't it, Riddle?"

He threw the handkerchief on the ground a dirty look.

"I can assure you, that handkerchief is not bugged," said Hermione patiently. "We've been travelling with it for weeks. If it was, You-Know-Who would have come after us by now."

"Not if he's been waiting to kill two birds with one stone," Peregrine muttered, and it was his turn to cast wary eyes to the sky. "Please come away from that awful sun, perhaps we can speak over tea inside."

"'Awful sun'?" Harry repeated, finally relinquishing his grip on him and stepping across the threshold. Before he could place a single foot on the magnificent Persian rug in the corridor, Peregrine had pointed his wand at Harry's shoes, caked with red dirt, saying, " _Scourgify_!"

"Oh, thanks," he said, listening as Hermione and Ron courteously did the same to their own shoes before following Harry in. "Anyway, if you hate the sun so much, why live here?"

"Only because Riddle hates it more than me," Peregrine said. "My choice of real estate makes it far less likely he'll choose to drop in for a surprise visit."

Peregrine stepped back into the doorway and pointed his wand skyward, murmuring under his breath, " _Protego horribilis_."

Something translucent pulsed from the tip of his wand, like life-blood pounding from a broken artery. It continued until it surrounded the entire property, a large, clear dome. Harry could only be sure that it was there because of the slight shimmer it projected when the sun bounced off it just so. Peregrine proceed to wave the door closed and muttering a few spells, knocking the door lightly with his wand before starting down the corridor, his robes fluttering like blue wings behind him.

"Any tea requests?" he called back to them as he glided into a side room off the corridor.

"Ah, no," Harry replied, lingering in the corridor with his two travelling companions. "Anything's fine, Peregrine. We'll be along in a moment."

"Well, I have a lovely Earl Grey I purchased a little while ago, this may be the occasion to crack it open…"

"Thanks, that sounds great."

Hermione beckoned Harry towards her and Ron furiously and waited for the kettle to start rumbling. As soon as it did, Ron hissed, "He's absolutely bonkers! Even more than Hermione!"

"What do you mean?" said Harry, stung, in unison with Hermione's, "Excuse me?"

"It's like Moody all over again," Ron continued in a low voice, then the corner of his mouth twitched. "Well, fake Moody. Crouch Junior. Mr Nutcase. The whole 'constant vigilance' rubbish."

"Not entirely rubbish, Ronald," said Hermione.

" _He thinks the handkerchief has ears_ ," Ron retorted.

"I think that was a joke," Harry interjected.

Ron shook his head vehemently, jabbing a finger towards the door. "I don't reckon so. He went and cast the strongest shield charm known to wizard kind!"

"Oh!" said Hermione, forgetting to keep her volume down. "Is that what that was, I was thinking it didn't sound familiar to anything I'd heard before."

Harry and Ron gestured for her to lower the volume again, and she scowled.

"It doesn't matter if he's paranoid or not, those ones'll be the survivors of this world," Harry said.

"This isn't why I wanted to talk to you two." Hermione threw a backwards glance towards where they could hear the kettle settling down and Peregrine preparing their tea. "What I want to know is why he's behaving as if it's perfectly normal for an old friend who died fifty years ago to turn up on his doorstep. And why he's hiding from You-Know-Who out here. They were relatively good mates last we saw."

"Key word – relatively," he said, exchanging a dark glance with her. "Either way, we're clearly missing a lot more information than we previously thought."

Peregrine poked his head out into the corridor. "The tea will be cold if you lot continue to plot out here for much longer."

Muttering under her breath, her brow furrowed, Hermione followed Peregrine into the side-room. Ron raised his eyebrows at Harry and sauntered past him in perfect imitation of Peregrine's self-assured walk.

"Come along, old chap," he said mockingly. "All the villains are plotting over lukewarm tea. Didn't you get the memo?"

* * *

Tea was an awkward affair. Harry's mind, however, was so preoccupied staggering through a maze of half-formed thoughts of 'Peregrine' and 'why' and 'how' that he may as well have been on an entirely different planet. When one is on a different planet they tend not to be affected by the bubble of awkward silence within the small kitchen of a house in the middle of the Australian outback. For Peregrine, awkwardness seemed to slide off him like water off a duck's back. He reclined in his chair luxuriously, cradling his cup of Earl Grey and milk, all the while watching Harry like a fond uncle might watch his favourite nephew. He showed no inclination of noticing the awkward silence nor initiating conversation.

To reword it, tea was an awkward affair – at least for Ron and Hermione (both had been restored to their everyday body a couple of minutes prior).

Ron's eyes were continuously darting between Harry and Peregrine as if he were watching a Quaffle being tossed back and forth in a fast-moving Quidditch match, despite no exchange occurring. He kept missing his mouth with his teacup. Hermione's eyes were glued upon Peregrine, tracing his face as if trying to make sense of a particularly enigmatic puzzle.

The silence was at last broken when Ron misjudged where his mouth was entirely and sloshed half a cup of tea down his front.

"Oh, bollocks," he said, leaping to his feet and searching for a napkin. Peregrine lazily flicked his wand and a towel materialised in thin area, practically throwing itself over Ron's head in an attempt to mop the spilled tea up. It was entirely off target and Harry wondered whether Peregrine had done this on purpose. Neither he nor Ron had exactly taken a shine to each other.

" _Geroff me_!" came a muffled shout from within the towel, which had managed to wrap itself into a creative turban around Ron's face while he clawed at its death grip.

A full smirk had painted itself across Peregrine's face.

Hermione clicked her tongue impatiently.

Harry sighed and passed Peregrine a look which was partly amused, partly annoyed. Clearly, he had not grown out of certain habits. Catching Harry's eye, Peregrine bit back the smirk and pointed his wand at the rampant towel. It unravelled itself, revealing Ron's reddened face.

"Very sorry about that," said Peregrine smoothly, giving his hand a careless wave. "Seemed to take on a mind of its own."

The towel wrung itself out into the neighbouring sink and returned to meekly rubbing Ron dry despite his protests.

"No, that's okay, I can– really, I'm able to– _will you just stop it already_!" he finally snapped, losing his temper, and the towel flopped to the ground sadly.

Peregrine raised his eyebrows at Ron, a picturesque image of astonishment at the young'uns rudeness.

Flushing slightly, Ron muttered, "Thanks, but I've got it under control."

Harry sighed again. It seemed he was full of sighs today. Something in the back of his head was observing what a perfect representation of the Gryffindor-Slytherin relationship Ron and Peregrine were, and wondered whether he had been so easily manipulated in the past. Almost definitely, he thought. He would have just been too blind to see their underhanded tactics.

"As enjoyable as this tea party has been," interrupted Hermione, leaning forward in her seat and narrowing her eyes at Peregrine, "I think it's about time we got some answers."

The atmosphere immediately sobered. Ron found his way back to his seat, and three sets of eyes found the man who held the key to all their answers.

Peregrine set his teacup on the table in front of him and reclined back into his chair, rubbing his chin between forefinger and thumb.

"So you want to know about the book," he said.

"The book can wait a wee moment," said Hermione, and she was leaning forwards so far that at this point she was practically off her chair. "I want to know why You-Know-Who can't remember Harry."

The temperature in the room plummeted to Arctic levels.

"What? That can't be right." Peregrine stood from his chair, sweeping his hair back from his face. He met Harry's eyes, and his own were deeply troubled. "Last I saw of him, he was right as rain."

"Right as rain," repeated Hermione, disbelieving.

"As right as a thunderstorm, then," Peregrine elaborated, appearing mildly annoyed.

"Peregrine," interjected Harry, a chill in his tone. "When exactly was the last time you saw him?"

Peregrine eyes swept down to his feet, apparently finding something extremely interesting on the floorboards, though his restless hands gave him away. In his pockets, out of his pockets, through his hair, scratching his chin.

Harry passed a sideways glance to Hermione, only to find her already directing a hard gaze towards him, her lips pulled taut. Words that needn't be spoken aloud darted between them for a split second, then Harry turned back to Peregrine, steeling himself.

"Peregrine," he said, and speaking gently it wasn't so hard after all. "Tell me."

Peregrine swallowed. The loosened skin did little to disguise the elegantly long column of his throat, the laryngeal prominence on display. It remained one of the showiest swallows Harry had ever seen.

"You and I last saw him," he said, "on the very same night."

For a very long moment silence held them captive, its wicked talons caging around their throats. Then Harry rocked forward in his chair, steepling his fingers together.

"So," he said, aiming for a casual tone but his voice broke on the word. He winced slightly and persisted. "That night?"

Peregrine gave a miniscule jerk of his head, mouth pinched.

"Well." Harry sucked on his teeth noisily and bounced one of his knees a few times, perhaps an unconscious manoeuvre to mask the ugly emotions rearing up within his chest and trying to claw their way out between his ribcage. "We're all ears for your riveting tale."

"I… I don't know," said Peregrine quietly, his gaze yet to leave the ground. "I'm not sure it's a tale you'd fancy listening to. I'm afraid you'd be rather disappointed in me, Hardwin."

Harry shook his head slowly, his pulse ticking palpably below the angle of his jaw. From the corner of his eye, he could sense Ron staring at him, perhaps waiting for the time bomb to finally detonate.

Briefly considering his options (diving headfirst out the nearest window wasn't one of them), Harry stood and carefully sidled up to Peregrine, the way one wild creature might approach another. If he was to ever be grateful for standing a handful of inches shorter than his old friend, now was the time because it made it so much simpler a task to catch his eye. It seemed a lifetime ago that he had once compared Peregrine's eyes to a shark's – flat, black, cold. How mistaken he had been, now that he could see the love, the shame brimming in those dark irises.

Harry put his arm around Peregrine's shoulders and led him back to his chair. Once he was seated, albeit stiffly, Harry dropped into a crouch before him and clasped his hands in his own.

"Don't be silly," he said softly. "I doubt I could be disappointed in you. It's because of you that I'm able to stand here today."

"You give me too much credit," Peregrine whispered back, his fingers tightening on Harry's own. "I know who you are, Harry Potter. I know that you stand your ground against the Dark Lord. I know of your bravery. I've witnessed it firsthand. And I'm ashamed of what a coward I am in comparison."

The question shone out from Harry's eyes.

"I fled that night." Peregrine's face was a white as a ghost, his gaze grew distant as he tumbled back into the memory of long ago. "I didn't have the courage to face him, as you had done. I ran, and some nights I lay awake and wonder _what if_."

" _What if_ you'd stayed behind? _What if_ you'd fought him?" Harry shrugged, smiling bitterly through his teeth. "There's little point pondering all the 'what ifs' in the world. That's a sure way to whittle away a lifetime. I thought you'd've know that by now."

Peregrine gave a short, sharp laugh.

"I'm afraid the face doesn't reflect the age beneath. Perhaps I've already 'whittled away' my life, as you put it. Perhaps all my daydreaming means I never really grew up." His lip curled upwards slightly, the weakest of sneers. "Now look at me. Look at what I've amounted for. The game will be over soon, for me, and I never caught the Snitch."

"Not your job to catch the Snitch," countered Harry, resting his chin upon Peregrine's knee and looking down at their intertwined fingers. "I'm here, so you can stop fretting now. Just enjoy the view while it lasts."

Peregrine heaved a deep sigh, but it was more exhale, more release than anything.

"With your blessings, I'll do just that," he murmured, and his eyes fluttered shut for a moment. When they snapped back open, they were clear once more. He looked first at Harry, then Hermione, then Ron. "Now, my memory's not what it once was, but I'm sure I can conjure up at least a decent recount of that inexplicable night fifty-three years ago…"

* * *

Bound by ropes upon the ground, humiliated before the eyes of his closest followers, betrayed by the one he wanted to trust but never could. It was not a good night for Tom Riddle.

Peregrine shifted in the doorway at the top of North Tower, concealed by shadows. When Riddle had threatened torture earlier, it was clear in his eyes that he meant it.

 _Torture, or worse._

Throughout the entirety of Harry and Riddle's duel, this was the only truth clear to Peregrine. Harry would lose, he thought, and he himself would meet some terrible fate. Riddle would not be toppled from his throne; his reign was absolute. No other outcome was possible.

The duel passed before his eyes unnoticed. Peregrine was too preoccupied within himself. A candid audience would put this down as him being self-absorbed, selfish ( _never mind your friend who may be duelling to the death, let's just focus on our own trivial problems_ ). A kinder one might excuse it as simply fear ( _it's part of the human condition, cut the boy some slack_ ).

At the time, Peregrine would vehemently agree with the latter of the two. Indeed, his mind was swarming with terror as if a cloud of Billywigs had entered through one ear and never exited through the other. Ricocheting around within his skull, the ceaseless droning made focus on anything at all impossible.

Later, he would remember his fear in the past. He had been fearful for his friends all too many times, but that had never prevented him from stepping in, speaking up, forming some kind of intervention. Perhaps it was different this time. Perhaps it was because it was his own hide on the line.

At some point in time, Peregrine had glanced sideways at Francis, at Cassius, but neither acknowledged him. Their eyes were drawn to the duel, reflecting the whirlwind of bright lights and colours. Silent save the snapping sound of hexes and jinxes rebounding off shield charms and walls. A fascinating but deadly sight. It was surely magnetic to them in the same way an insect is attracted to the pretty flower before it is snapped up in the carnivorous plant's jaws.

Francis and Cassius were too far ensnared by the honeypot Riddle promised them. In his heart of hearts, Peregrine knew that neither would stand up in his defence. He had seen their horrified, their disgusted faces when his betrayal had been revealed. They were no longer brothers. Riddle had lifted his wing and neither had followed Peregrine out.

But now there was Harry, standing on the opposite side of the field. He offered no wing to shelter Peregrine beneath, but there was a space to his left, mirror to Hermione Delacour's place, where they could stand as equals. Yet still he cowered and never crossed the field on his own.

Perhaps if he had, then he may have been dubbed as courageous. But no, instead he lurked upon the threshold, too fearful to take the fall.

Now Harry's battle was fought and won.

There would be no forgiveness for the cowards.

Harry stood over Riddle, his wand unwavering, his eyes clear and hard.

"Stop this now, Tom," he said, and despite the harsh lines of his face his voice was soft, little more than a caress. "No more fighting. You lost, fair and square, so it's time to back down."

Cassius slipped forwards as Riddle rose to his feet, radiating such as terrible energy that Peregrine didn't understand how Cassius could stand to be in such close proximity.

"We should go," he murmured, without so much as a backwards glance at the two figures conversing in quiet tones across from them.

His face pinched and pale, Riddle turned and started towards the doorway. His gaze met Peregrine's and _it's all my fault, it's all my fault really._

The sight of Peregrine seemed to reignite a flame in Riddle's belly. His eyes widened, his pupils blew wide – there was only the thinnest ring of iris visible. For a split second he stood motionless, he may have been a statue if it weren't for the mad light pulsing in his eyes. Neither Cassius nor Francis noticed this moment when the cards flipped. They were already halfway out the door.

Riddle was slowly raising his wand again. Trapped like a rabbit in headlights, Peregrine braced his back against the wall his stood against and turned his face away. That hatred would not be the last thing he saw on this earth…

The curse was not intended for him.

Perhaps if he had left then and there with Cassius and Francis, perhaps if he had fled then everything would have been different. He never would have seen Hermione Delacour blink out of existence, as if they were all a bad dream and she was finally waking up. He never would have seen the bravest wizard he knew begging for death.

Harry Delacour's final act in life was outfoxing Tom Riddle. Perhaps that was why Riddle coveted him so. But 'covet' was not strong enough a word for the sight that Peregrine beheld.

People covet life, Peregrine thought as he backed himself away from the terribly bloody and tender scene playing out before him. But does life covet energy, or water? No, it simply cannot exist without. Maybe, on this night, he had lost one thing but found another. Maybe he had finally gained an understanding of the enigma who was their schoolyard king.

Peregrine hovered on the top step of North Tower, his presence well and truly forgotten, but for how long? In that moment, Riddle was cradling Harry in his arms, rocking back and forth and pleading him to stay. Despite everything, Peregrine saw past the elaborate costumes and masks, the props and titles of this stage play they had all been a part of since the moment they stepped onto the Hogwarts Express almost seven years ago.

Tom Riddle wasn't a monster, he was just a cold-hearted leader. He wasn't a cold-hearted leader, he was just a lonely prodigy. He wasn't a lonely prodigy, he was just a boy.

Peregrine inclined his head towards Riddle, just slightly, a final farewell. Then he pressed a hand against his heart before extending it to the boy who was dying at the top of this tower, amongst the stars.

"Hardwin," he whispered, then turned and fled down the winding staircase. He tripped over his own feet occasionally but always managed to right himself before he took the plummet, one hand against the wall as he ran. His palm burned from the rough friction but he did not stop. There was too much to do and so little time.

Hogwarts castle was sleeping at this time of night. Despite the thundering of his feet down corridors, his loud, ragged breathing and his heart which pounded like a drum to his ears, he encountered nobody. Not a soul stirred.

He had not yet reached the Slytherin common room when he felt it and had to pause to gasp in a breath of air, dragging as much oxygen back into his lungs as possible lest he pass out.

It was an inexplicable sensation that he could almost taste in the still night air, the silence in the walls, the wink in the sky as some distant star at long last exhausted the last of its fuel and could be seen no more.

It was in this moment that Harry fell away from this world.

Peregrine pushed onwards, clacking his teeth together into a hard grimace. The clock was ticking, he couldn't risk losing any time to grief.

Upon arrival in the dungeons, he said, " _Ashwinder_ ," and entered the common room. It never occurred to him what he would do if he stumbled upon any of Riddle's inner circle. All that was clear to him was that he was no longer a part of it and he had to escape this ring of terror before it was too late. It was the least he could do to honour Harry, who was no longer with them.

Cassius nor Francis were there. It didn't surprise Peregrine. This setting – with the soft carpets and the armchairs and the tables strewn with half-finished assignments – was all too mundane a place to return to after all that they had witnessed.

All others in the house had retired for the night. It was quiet and devoid of life. The ceiling and the walls glowed a soft green, reminiscent of the curse Riddle had last cast. Peregrine moved straight to the seventh-year boys' dormitory and took the stairs two at a time.

The room was like a tomb. It was dark and the bed hangings were all drawn shut despite the absence of a body to shield from view. The shadows twisted in the corners of the room, forming figures that weren't truly there, and Peregrine hurriedly dragged his wand through the air, watching as all his belongings hopped across the room, skidding across surface tops and jumbling into his open trunk. It didn't matter that it wasn't a neat job.

He snapped the clasps shut on the trunk and tapped it with his wand. It rose into the air and followed him obediently out the door and back into the common room, where he halted for a split second to take in his surroundings, wanting to memorise it all as best as he could. The sheen of the dragon-hide cover of his favourite armchair. The chip on the corner of the black marble-top side table he and Francis had accidentally left during second-year.

He would never return.

Angrily scrubbing at his eyes and cursing his traitorous tear ducts, he pushed open the common room door and stepped back into the chilly corridor. The door slid shut behind his levitating trunk, shutting in the residual warmth of the common room. His bones were immediately leeched cold. Ducking his head, Peregrine began his final journey to the front entrance of Hogwarts.

He should have known his luck wouldn't hold the entire way.

It was as he moved across the entrance hall, the front doors within sight, that a dark figure cut across his path, blocking his pathway out of the castle.

His breath catching in his throat, Peregrine plunged his hand into his robes and emerged with his wand, his arm unsteady as he directed it towards the person cloaked in shadows. They were no more than a dark smear to his clouded vision.

"Please calm yourself, Mr. Lestrange," the figure said benignly, raising his hands to show that he was no threat.

Peregrine let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding but didn't lower his wand. His quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his other hand and said in as haughty a tone as he could manage, "Fancy seeing you here, Professor Dumbledore."

"I could say the same to you, my boy. What are you doing out at such a late hour?" He was smiling, just a little, perhaps to soften the confrontation. Peregrine could hear it in his voice and was suddenly mad, madder than he'd been in a long time.

"I am not obliged to answer your questions," he said harshly, taking a few more steps forward. "I'm no longer a student at Hogwarts. I quit."

"I see," said Dumbledore. He had not moved from his position and his voice was serene. "If that is what you must do, then I can take no action to prevent it. You are of age, after all."

He wanted Dumbledore to also get angry, to raise his voice. He wanted any sort of justification to channel his fury through to the grandfatherly wizard that Riddle hated so much. Anything but this calm acceptance when his own world was crumbling, dragged out to sea like a broken sandcastle with the current.

He took another step forward, another step closer to the doorway that Dumbledore had centred himself within.

"You're blocking my way," he said. He wanted to shout at the man to move, but he felt sure there was a limit to Dumbledore's affability and didn't fancy being cursed to high heavens before he even managed to step outside.

"I apologise." It didn't sound genuine, and now Dumbledore moved into the light, revealing his ridiculous robes of banana-yellow with purple suns dancing along the hemlines. The pathway opened wide again, and Peregrine set his jaw to continue his journey.

But Dumbledore wasn't yet done.

"Before you leave," he said softly, "might I ask you what occurred tonight?"

Caught off kilter, Peregrine glanced at Dumbledore in a split-second moment of surprise. Their eyes met in that moment, and Dumbledore's piercing blue gaze gave him the sensation of being read like a particularly simple book.

Then the moment passed and Peregrine wasn't entirely sure whether he had imagined it. He gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes, shoving himself forwards again.

"Nothing," he spat out, the same way a boxer in a fistfight might spit out a bloody tooth knocked loose.

Dumbledore sighed wearily and reached out a hand. Peregrine tensed, preparing to knock it away if it was intended to hold him back, but instead the hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed.

The weight was warm and real and drained him of the venom that had chased through his veins so rapidly.

"I'm sorry," the deputy headmaster murmured, as if he knew anything which had happened.

Peregrine's muscles slackened and he whispered, "So am I."

He shook the hand free from his shoulder, breaking the connection, and flicked his wand at the front doors. They creaked wide open, slow and heavy, and as he stepped across the threshold, Dumbledore called after him one last time.

"Oh, Mr. Lestrange?"

Peregrine turned his head in acknowledgement.

"I almost forgot to mention, the Tempus Charm may prove to be a fascinating point of research, should you choose to delve down that path." Dumbledore's eyes shone bright as he spoke. "Goodnight and good luck to you."

He turned on his heel and waved his wand in the air. The doors closed again with a resounding _boom_ that echoed through the night.

Peregrine stood frozen for a heartbeat, his face like stone but cogs and gears whirling and creaking to life beneath the surface. The Tempus Charm was not one he was familiar with, and why should Dumbledore choose to leave him with this prompt? There was no love lost between the two of them, and Dumbledore was notorious for his nonsensical offhand comments. It didn't matter. Peregrine had larger issues to attend to.

Either way, as Peregrine strode across the courtyard he made sure to file away the exchange in his head for a later date. It was time to go off the grid.

* * *

"I headed to Hogsmeade, Apparated to Diagon Alley," said Peregrine, turning his head to gaze out the window. "Took as much out of my parents' Gringotts vault as I dared and left the country. Changed my name."

"To Hardwin Fjord," Harry put in, and smirked. "It's honestly ridiculous."

Peregrine smiled at him fondly.

"Changed it many times," he said. "That one was one of my most recent incarnations."

Hermione shushed them and held up a finger.

"Let's just get this straight," she said. "Dumbledore told you about the Tempus Charm ever since you've been studying it, unpicking it and putting it back together?"

"It's a bit of a stretch to say that he told me about," Peregrine said, a little irritably, pouring himself another cup of tea. "I wouldn't give him that much credit, he just gave me the name and sent me on my way. I'm the one who did all the heavy lifting. It's too bad the Dark Lord took such an interest in my research after I had it published. Do you know how many times I've had to change locations because of it?"

Ron snorted.

"What d'you expect?" he said, throwing his hands in the air. "Some bloke invents proper time travel and shouts it to the world, why wouldn't the king of domination and dictatorship try catch you? He'd probably want to put you in a pretty cage in an exhibition of all his favourite toys, and when you're not on display he'd pick your brain to bits."

"Ron," Harry cautioned. Clearly, he had not yet forgiven Peregrine for the towel face-turban.

"I'm just saying." Ron shrugged, but there was the trace of a smirk on his face. "You'd be the sunflower in the family window box."

Peregrine glared at him. It was an intimidating glower, clearly one which had taken years to master.

"Well, it was a little silly of you to publish it," Harry reasoned, and Peregrine scoffed.

"Why should all my work go ignored?" he demanded. "It was ground-breaking, if I do say so myself. Besides, all readers dubbed it a work of fiction. None of the methods were applicable to a real-life setting. Not a single spell worked."

"Don't I know it," said Hermione loudly. "I want to know _why_ none of it worked. I followed it step-by-step, precisely as you'd written it all down, but no magical, glowing gold portals spraying unicorns and rainbows out of its arse appeared!"

Harry cringed. Ron's mouth dropped open.

"Unicorns and rainbows out of its arse?" he repeated, a little indignantly.

"That's a sight I would love to see," said Peregrine, raising an eyebrow. "If you're ever successful with that, my dear, please be sure to let me know."

"That is not my point!" Hermione all but shrieked. "What is wrong with your book? Did you forget to put something in? Is there a mistranslation somewhere?"

Harry lifted a hand to calm her, but she ignored him, her eyes only for Peregrine.

He ran a weary hand through his hair and said, "Well, I never expected it to work for anyone. I switched out all the correct spells and replaced them with fakes."

There was a long, deep silence. The silence before two armies in a battle meet in the middle of the playing field.

Hermione's voice was deathly quiet when she said, "And why would you do that?"

Peregrine huffed out a breath, as though she were being unreasonably angry.

"Because we can't have everyone nipping back in time for a cup of tea when they feel like it."

"Then why," said Hermione, rising to her feet and the room grew darker, "did you publish anything at all?"

"It took me nearly half a century to put all the pieces together!" Peregrine massaged his temples, his face screwed up. "Wouldn't you want a little recognition for that?"

"Not if it means raising the hopes of people who have nothing left but dreams," said Harry softly.

There was another extended silence, punctured only by Hermione pouncing across the room onto her backpack and rifling through the contents feverishly. Peregrine's head was inclined slightly, reading Harry's facial expression like a curious bird.

"I've disappointed you again," he observed, his tone almost detached.

"You didn't disappoint me when I was duelling Tom," said Harry. "I didn't expect or want you to step in. That was my fight, and my fight alone. I won't deny that I'm disappointed now."

Peregrine nodded slowly, understandingly, his face suddenly very tired again.

"I see," he said.

"I'm not disappointed in you, per se," Harry said hollowly, ignoring Ron rushing over to help Hermione, who had finally pulled out her wand to perform a summoning charm. "I'm just disappointed. If time travel isn't possible after all, well, the three of us are back to square one."

A light reignited in Peregrine's eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione beat him to it, thrusting _Tales from Beyond_ into the air and saying, "Are we all agreed that this book is a pile of codswallop, then?"

"That's a little harsh," began Peregrine, but that was all the affirmation she needed to hear.

She threw the book away (Ron barely managed to catch it) and began pacing.

"Just excellent," she muttered, scrubbing a hand through her bushy hair and making it stand up even more than it already was. "Can't believe we've wasted this much time… should have _known_ it was too good to be true… great big idiot… _totally_ naïve of me…"

She would occasionally throw a dirty look at Peregrine, who finally interrupted her tirade by raising a hand.

"You should have said a little earlier that you were looking to do a little time-hopping," he said sombrely, but there was a twinkle in his eye again.

They all stared at him. Harry's heart tap-danced in his chest, hardly daring to believe.

"Can you–" he began, but then the whole room vibrated. His eyes shot down to the shallow pool of tea he had not yet drunk in his cup. There were ripples spreading across the clear, amber liquid. Then the room shuddered, as if something heavy had knocked into the side of it. The whole house did, in fact – he could hear picture frames in the corridor fall from their perches and shatter on the ground, and his teacup skittered off the tabletop and shattered on the ground.

He didn't bother repairing it, instead shooting to his feet, his wand in his hand in an instant.

"What's going on?" he asked loudly.

The other three were also on their feet, Peregrine bracing himself against the wall. The spark Harry had seen in his eyes a moment ago had been extinguished again. His gaze was flat as he met Harry's.

"They're here," he said.

" _Who_ is?" Harry demanded, and the house rocked again, forcing him to space his feet apart to gain greater balance.

"It's them, Harry!" yelled Ron from his place over by the window, hanging onto the window frame, his red hair glowing like a halo in the sunlight. "But how the fuck did they find us?"

Harry skidded over to meet him by the window and blinked against the blinding sunlight filtering it.

Everything about the scene before his eyes was so wrong that it might have been funny if the circumstances were different. As it was, there were five figures cloaked in black, dancing around the dusty red dirt in the sweltering heat, aiming curses at the protective shell Peregrine had thankfully erected around the property.

Harry slipped back to Peregrine's side as the house shook again.

"Come out, come out, Potter!" he heard one of them bellowing outside.

"What do we do?" he asked urgently, grabbing Peregrine's arm. "D'you know how they tracked us?"

Peregrine's face was pale but resolute, as if this had been a long time coming.

"Handkerchiefs," he said.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

 **Belated Happy New Year, my lovelies! This chapter was beta-ed by Nothinglikeyou.**

* * *

No sooner than Peregrine had uttered the word 'handkerchiefs', he swept out of the room with no further comment, his jaw set.

Harry didn't call after him. He would be back.

The room fell silent, save for the muffled metallic clattering of silverware in drawers and china tea sets jittering on shelves whenever the house vibrated. Then–

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," said Hermione angrily, scrambling around to gather the contents of her pack off the floor and shoving them back into her bag. "Goddamn handkerchiefs, next thing you know pigs will be flying…"

"Pigs _can_ fly," interjected Ron, still craning his neck to watch the Death Eaters outside the house. "Haven't you heard of pigasi?"

"Oh, excellent, _pigasi_!" Hermione snapped, snatching _Tales from Beyond_ from Ron's hands and cramming it back into her pack, but not before throwing him a filthy look. "Is that plural for pigasus? Surely you can come up with something more original than that–"

"I'm not making it up," said Ron defensively, averting his attention from the offensive group for a split second. "I thought everyone knew about pigasi, haven't you heard the fairy tale about the rabbit and the–"

" _I'm Muggle-born, Ronald_!" Hermione all but howled. " _I do not know the fairy tale about the rabbit and the bloody pigasus_!"

"WE'VE GOT A BIGGER ISSUE AT HAND!" Harry bellowed over the argument that boiled explosively to life. He braced his back against the wall, widening his stance to prevent himself from losing his footing. It seemed as though the Death Eaters were aiming even stronger spells at them than before, causing increasingly violent convulsions across the property.

"Remarkably astute observation, Hardwin," said Peregrine, somehow managing to glide back into the room despite the tremors, a moderately-sized trunk in hand.

"What's that?" Harry asked, zeroing in on his luggage.

"Emergency getaway starter pack. If I could offer any advice to young vigilantes such as yourselves, I would say to always keep one on hand. You never know when those bastards will catch up to you." Peregrine tilted his chin up imperiously as he moved towards the window Ron was stationed by. Harry caught his arm as he passed.

"Care to actually explain _how_ they caught up to us?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"I told you already – handkerchiefs!" Peregrine wrenched out of his grip with surprising strength, a bite of impatience in his voice.

"You're telling me it was actually bugged?" Harry exchanged a disbelieving glance with Ron. "How could you have possibly known that? If you knew, why didn't you do something earlier?"

"Oh, Hardwin, please don't tell me you're one of those people who become an amoeba in high pressure situations. That's terribly boring," said Peregrine, briefly rapping his knuckles against Harry's forehead. "Don't forget to use that wondrous organ stored within your skull."

Harry swiped his hand away, scowling.

"Let's see… I didn't _know_ that handkerchief had a tracking spell embedded in it," Peregrine continued, skidding the rest of the distance to the window to peer outside. "I was merely suspicious. Suspicion is how I'm still a free man today. And I did take precautions earlier on. I set up a protective barrier around us, didn't I? I would say that's sufficient. It should hold until we make our getaway."

Outside, the Death Eaters had evidently spotted Peregrine and Ron through the window. Harry could hear excited shouts of 'Fjord!' and 'Potter found him!'. Peregrine stuck his middle finger up, displaying exceptional maturity for his age. The Death Eaters began spitting curses. When Peregrine turned back to face the room, his wizened face was stretched into a shit-eating grin. Ron looked begrudgingly amused.

"But that would mean they've been tracking our progress across the country the entire time," said Harry, far from done with his questioning. "It doesn't add up. You-Know-Who could have sent a group at any time to ambush us, why would he wait until we'd already found– ah."

"Snapped out of your amoeba state?" asked Peregrine briskly. "Excellent, I do prefer to keep intelligent company."

"After he realised what we were doing, he was waiting for us to find each other… then he'd have all of us backed into a corner… two birds with one stone, eh, Tom?" Harry shook his head but was unable to stifle the dark chuckle that left his lips.

"Or four," offered Ron unhelpfully while Hermione continued seething in the corner of the room, hoisting her pack onto her back and indicating that Harry and Ron do the same.

"Unfortunately for him," said Peregrine, a mad gleam in his eye, "the Dark Lord underestimated us. He always did regard himself as above the rest of us, we were mere pawns on the chessboard of his game, brainless puppets to his puppeteer. Arrogance will be his downfall."

There was a soft crackling noise overhead, outside, all around, as if someone had found a crack in hard plaster and was lifting it away in large flakes. The protective barrier was crumbling.

"We need to get out of here now," Hermione said, securing her pack to her back and whipping her head around to direct a hard stare at Peregrine. "Are you able to help us head back or not?"

"Fortunately for you," said Peregrine as the ground shook beneath their feet again and their ears were filled with the splintering sound of the weakening shield, "you're in the presence of the only wizard with the ability to send you back into a fluid past – that is, a past in which the timeline is malleable. A past in which you are able to create a new reality, unlike the Tempus Charm you experienced. But you need to make a choice right now. You can all go back right now, or you can wait."

His knuckles were white around the handle of his trunk.

"Right now is the obvious choice, isn't it?" said Hermione, glancing at Harry and Ron for their input. Ron was nodding along in agreement, but Harry's eyes were upon Peregrine's pale knuckles.

"What's the catch?" he asked.

Peregrine's mouth quirked upwards and he shook his head.

"I can never get anything past you, can I?" he murmured. "I don't know what you plan on doing in the past, though I have a good guess, but I presume you'll be wanting to return to the current year after your business is complete?"

"Yes," said Hermione, surging forwards so that she was level with Harry, gripping his arm so hard that it hurt. "Is that not a viable option?"

"It's possible," said Peregrine, after a lengthy pause. "There may be an issue, however. I'll try to explain as briefly as possible. One of the points I did not address in _Tales from Beyond_ is the requirement for a medium. A medium is the gatekeeper of the bridge between time. No one but the chosen medium can send you back in time and bring you forward again. Not only that, but the ritual can only be properly performed in a location that has been appropriately prepared. There is currently one such location beneath our feet at this very instant. I prepared my basement for this when I first moved in here. Unfortunately, it's the only usable location. I created others in the past, but I destroyed them whenever I relocated. Do you see what I'm getting at?"

"I really shouldn't be astounded that you chose to omit something that important." Hermione released Harry's arm and first met his gaze, then Ron's. There was a flat darkness in her eyes. "Presumably Lestrange would act as our medium if all three of us went back in time. However, if those Death Eaters break in while we're gone and take him hostage…"

 _We won't be coming back_.

The unspoken truth rang as clear as a bell through the room, puncturing the sound of crumbling defences all around.

"Well, that's that," said Ron, his upbeat tone almost believable. "We should wait, then. We can wait, yeah?"

Harry didn't reply. He was staring at Hermione, and Hermione was staring back at him. Her features were devoid of expression save for the dull acceptance in the thin line of her mouth, mirror to his own.

He inclined his head towards her, a silent agreement, and squared his shoulders as he turned to face Peregrine. His answer shone out from his eyes.

Peregrine's mouth tugged into the barest of smirks, though his gaze was sad.

"Well," he said, dumping his trunk on the ground and kicking it to the side. "I suppose I won't be needing this after all."

"Why won't you be needing that?" asked Ron blankly, glancing between the three of them. "Aren't we getting out of here now?"

Harry looked at his feet.

"Ron…" Hermione took a step towards him, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. Her voice was gentle. "That's not really an option for us."

"Like hell it's not!" Ron retorted, shrugging her hand off and glaring around the room. "Do you _want_ to get stuck in the past? Think, Hermione, I thought that was your forte! If we're being logical about this, we should get out of this place and regroup later! How long would it take to prepare another place for your time travel ritual thing?"

The question was shot at Peregrine, who was evidently growing edgier as the debate dragged on and the moment the Death Eaters descended on them loomed closer.

"Around a month, give or take," he said, folding his arms and drumming his fingers.

"We can wait a month," said Ron, turning back to Harry and Hermione, his arms outstretched beseechingly. "What's another few weeks to us?"

Hermione took a step back from him, returning to Harry's side. Their shoulders brushed as she said, "It isn't guaranteed we'll be given this opportunity again if we turn our backs now. If we run, the Death Eaters will be on our tail the entire time. They've found all four of us, they won't hold back anymore. How could we possibly stay in the same place long enough for Lestrange to make any more preparations?"

"So we take them out here and now!" Ron's face twisted into a scowl, stabbing his finger at the gaggle of witches and wizards through the window. "There's only one more of them than us."

Peregrine cleared his throat. "I'm afraid that this would not be a battle I partake in. I have too many old ties with the Dark Lord's followers, I do not wish to engage–"

"Then there's only two more of them than us, big deal!" Ron's voice was gradually growing higher in tone, his ears becoming red. Harry had never seen him quite so hysterical before.

"It's not a gamble I'm willing to take," Hermione said.

Ron spluttered, struggling to find the words he so obviously wished to say. "I would've thought… you two… _of all people_ …"

He fell silent, burying his face in his hands and turning his back to them.

With a rush of clarity, like storm clouds parting overhead, Harry finally understood.

"You're afraid," he said quietly.

"I'm not afraid," said Ron unconvincingly, his voice muffled, but lowered his hands and turned his head to face them. His eyes showed the barest hint of moisture. "I just thought… you two are the ones who've been stranded in another time. You should see the possible consequences of this risk more clearly than any of us. You should be the most terrified, you should be the ones insisting on running, damn it all, _running_ and not looking back!"

Harry met his wild gaze steadily.

"It's because of that that we don't want to run," he said and reached down to squeeze Hermione's hand. "We thought we'd never see home again. But we have, and maybe that's enough."

Hermione squeezed his hand back and reached out to take Ron's.

"As long as we've got each other, I know we'll be alright," she said. Her lips wobbled into a smile.

Ron stared at her, at the mask of bravado she wore like a shield. Harry could pinpoint the exact moment the panic withdrew from his eyes to be replaced by something hard and unyielding.

He gave a sharp nod.

Harry exhaled and turned to Peregrine.

"You sure you're okay with this?" he asked.

"It's fine," said Peregrine. He was already standing at the far corner of the room, rapping his wand upon seemingly random spots on the wall. "I'm fine. Besides, it was a given that they'd get me eventually. What better way than with this last act of rebellion? They'll be spitting mad when they realise what I've done!"

He laughed, but the sound was strung taut. He finished knocking against the wall and lowered his wand, taking a step back. There was a pregnant pause in which nothing happened. Then the wall split down the middle, rearranging itself into a narrow doorway with slow, heavy clunks. Harry peered in. Everything beyond the first few steps downwards was pitch black. Hermione and Ron appeared in his peripherals, staring into the darkness from over his shoulder.

"Ladies first," said Peregrine, gesturing with his wand.

Harry could only imagine the look he must have received from Hermione.

"Allow an old man his jokes," he said with a low chuckle, stepping forward to take the lead. Harry followed suit, Hermione tailing him and Ron bringing up the rear. They were plunged into darkness when the wall closed itself behind them. Finding no need to communicate with one another, they each raised lit wand tips in unison to illuminate the narrow passageway with its old, crumbly stone walls. Harry brought his wand higher to properly gauge their surroundings. Below the ground, the place was dilapidated (there was no kinder way to put it). Age-old cobwebs were matted in clumps to the ceiling. Fresh webs housed spindly black spiders (Harry could almost hear Ron shrinking in on himself). The steps were rough-hewn rock, dangerously uneven to walk on.

Hermione stumbled on a loose step behind him and barely managed to steady herself on his shoulder. Harry jumped at the contact and hissed into Peregrine's ear, "Can't you have made this place a little more… well, less likely to brain ourselves on the wall?"

Peregrine was easing himself down the stairs with the grace of a person with much practice. He glanced at Harry over his shoulder and said with a mischievous glint in his eyes, "Safety not guaranteed."

The descent continued in silence. Harry tripped over once and almost pushed Peregrine to his likely death. A spider landed on Ron's shoulder and nearly resulted in the demise of the lot of them.

All things considered, it was a rather uneventful journey downward. Harry's paranoid mind offered more entertainment than the reality of the trip. Every few seconds he fancied himself hearing heavy boots stampede into the little kitchen they had previously occupied. It wasn't uncommon for him to whirl around to ensure the noises he heard directly behind them were merely ghosts of his imagination.

When they finally reached the basement after what felt like an eon but was realistically probably only five minutes, Peregrine turned to them and instructed, "Lights out."

There were simultaneous mutters of, " _Nox_ ," and once again a heavy black weight pressed in on Harry's eyes. He blinked, no longer entirely sure whether or not his eyes were open. There was the noise of fabric shifting ahead of him, just where Peregrine stood, then slowly lights bloomed into existence around the room, like golden flowers unfurling. Peregrine was sweeping his wand in a smooth motion from one corner of the basement to the other, the torches in iron brackets attached to the walls rattling to life.

It was less basement than dungeon. Harry was vividly reminded of Snape's classroom as he took in the less than welcoming sight. They stood in a circular chamber whose ground, walls and ceiling were constructed entirely of smooth cobblestones. There was no interior decoration, save the torches set into the stone walls and a rickety wooden table across the room. Someone had drawn a large circle on the floor in white chalk, with debatable accuracy in Harry's opinion. Words in a foreign language had been scrawled in the centre of the circle, with various unfamiliar symbols surrounding it. The result was an elaborate piece of art Harry couldn't tear his eyes away from.

"Welcome to paradise," said Peregrine. He had moved to the table across the chamber without Harry noticing and was flicking through a book that hadn't been sitting atop it behind.

"What's that star doing up there?" Ron asked. His voice was still a tad breathy, his eyes shifty from his recent encounter with the spider.

"What?" said Harry.

Ron pointed, his eyebrows raised. Harry followed the direction of his finger to the centre of the ceiling. A simple five-pointed star had been roughly engraved into the hard stone.

Before Peregrine could open his mouth, Hermione seized the opportunity to flex her own knowledge. Harry was almost glad. It brought back a sense of familiarity to this otherwise alien situation.

"That's the nautical star," she said quickly. "It's typically associated with the United States armed forces in the sea, but anyone with a little knowledge of our basic history knows that it's more deeply enrooted in sailor culture than the United States specifically. Some people call it the north star because it's supposed to symbolise–"

"–a lost traveller finding their way home, that's right," said Peregrine, smiling a little. "That was my intention, anyway, when I incorporated it into the design."

Harry stared at it, his head tilting to the side as he examined the star engraving. He wasn't entirely sure why, but it seemed to radiate a sense of ancient magic. It was inexplicable, but there was something calming about it. The nerves twisting like loose wires within him lay still. It was almost as though it was calling him home.

"You said it takes you weeks to prepare a place for this," said Ron. "It doesn't look like it would take that long to put a few drawings on the ground."

"I had to lay down a foundation of wards and enchantments," countered Peregrine, returning to the book on the table. "This is deeply volatile magic, you can't just 'put a few drawings on the ground'. I wouldn't expect the likes of you to understand."

Ron spluttered, his ears growing red. "What's that meant to mean?"

Peregrine spared him a look of disdain. "Only those of pure-blood lineage could hope to fathom the magic entrenched in this ritual."

Hermione scoffed.

Harry sighed. "I hoped you might have outgrown that sort of thinking, Peregrine," he said bracingly. "Besides, Ron actually is pure-blood, if you really do care to know."

"Not that it matters," added Ron.

Peregrine raised an eyebrow, having earned his unadulterated attention. "Really? Which family do you hail from?"

"Weasley." Ron's voice was begrudging, but his gaze was challenging.

Peregrine rolled his eyes and turned back to the book once again. "Merlin and Morgana help me," he muttered.

While he continued sweeping through the pages, Hermione turned to face Harry and Ron.

"Alright," she said. "It looks like this is really happening. First, we need to establish what our endgame is."

"Preventing Tom from creating this future," said Harry swiftly. "Peregrine sending us into a fluid past should do the trick, since it won't be a fixed timeline."

"Breaking the time loop the Tempus Charm created is the goal, then," said Hermione. "We're going to have to be careful, since every action we take will alter the future. All we have to do is locate the origin of the Tempus Charm… _when_ shouldn't be an issue, as long as Peregrine performs the ritual properly…"

"Don't doubt me." The voice came from over Harry's shoulder and he started. Peregrine was standing behind them with the book tucked under one arm and a short, wickedly sharp blade in the other hand. "Now, if you've read my book as you say you have, I'm sure you're all aware of this part. All prospective time-travellers, please leave a sample of blood at the centre of the circle. As soon as you have left your mark, this ritual will have officially commenced, so I ask that you refrain from removing yourself from within the circumference. Any part of your body which exits the circle's boundary will be left behind."

He held out the blade. Without looking at Hermione or Ron, Harry took it first. He stepped into the circle and walked to the middle. With only a slight grimace, he ran the sharp edge against the palm of his hand and held it out, allowing the crimson dribble to splatter against the cobblestones. Hermione entered the circle next, taking the knife from him and mimicking his action, a crease forming between her eyebrows as she added to the red stain across the ground.

Harry waited for Ron to join them, but he remained outside the circle, his arms folded. There was a hard light was within his eyes again, the same Harry had seen earlier but had not commented on.

His heart sank into his abdomen region and did not resurface.

"Ron," said Hermione, a little impatiently. "Come on. We've got to get going. I doubt we have very long before the Death Eaters break in and figure out where we are."

Ron shook his head. "I'm not going."

It appeared that he had finally managed to shock even Peregrine into a state of silence. Not a single half-witty, half-snide comment left his lips. Hermione was a different matter.

"We haven't got time before this," she snapped.

"No, you don't," said Ron. "Off you pop."

Hermione stormed towards him until she stood with her toes against the boundary, her hands forming fists at her sides and her voice rising in volume. "I would drag you in here if I could, but unfortunately I'd rather keep all my limbs intact, so hurry up and come over here!"

Ron's jaw tightened and he glanced to the side, away from her. "I can't, Hermione. I've got to stay here with Lestrange."

"That's ridiculous! Why are you staying with him? Why are you _doing_ this?"

"Because I'm going to do all I can to make sure you and Harry can come back," said Ron quietly. He directed his gaze towards Peregrine. "I'll guard your back until you can bring them home."

Something unspoken passed between them. Peregrine inclined his head once in acknowledgement.

Ron glanced back at Hermione's face and whatever he saw made him drop his gaze, his mouth forming a line.

"Let me do this, Hermione. If this is all the sacrifice I have to make, I'll gladly step out of this adventure."

"We need you," Hermione whispered. Her voice was thick and Harry realised she must have started crying. " _I_ need you."

Ron lifted his face and smiled sadly. "You two will find your way. You always do."

He met Harry's eye. Harry smiled back at him, a lump forming in his own throat. "Alright," he said, his voice cracking. "See you in a bit, Ron. We'll take it from here."

He stepped forwards and put his arm around Hermione's shoulders, drawing her back to the centre of the circle. She did little to resist, simply extending an arm in Ron's direction.

" _Please_." It came out as little more than a whisper, a desperate wish caught in the back of her throat.

Harry's knuckles whitened around her shoulder. "Peregrine," he said roughly.

Peregrine spared Hermione one last glance, something curious in his gaze, before turning to address Harry. "Once you can no longer hear me speaking, I need both of you to visualise the time you want to go back to. In fact, visualise is too weak a word. I need you to–"

"–feel it, I know," said Harry. "You wrote it in your book. We can manage it."

He cast a quick look down at Hermione. She had wrapped both arms around herself, gaze fixed upon Ron's face, but Harry knew she was listening.

"We also need to agree upon a time in which I'll cast a return portal for you," continued Peregrine. "A day in their time should translate into approximately ten seconds in our time. What time limit will you allow yourselves to achieve your objective?"

"Seven minutes and thirty seconds," said Hermione. Her voice was tiny. "That will allow us forty-five days."

"We'll earn you that time," said Ron, then the corner of his mouth tipped up a fraction. "Hey, Hermione. Come back safely and I'll take you out some time."

Hermione's head jerked up, momentarily stunned out of her mood. "Like a…?"

"Yeah, like a date." He grinned now, all bright blue eyes and freckles and a barely-recovered burnt nose. "I'll be waiting right here. And Harry?"

"Yeah?"

There was a pause in which Ron chewed over his words. Then he shrugged and said, "Go get him."

Harry smiled down at his feet.

Peregrine pointed his wand at the five-pointed star above Harry and Hermione, the book from his desk open in his other hand. The lights emitted from the torches around the periphery of the chamber dimmed. Peregrine swept his eyes over the words in the book, opened his mouth, and began.

The words that rolled off his tongue were soothing, elegant and haunting, all rolled into one. Harry closed his eyes, the words lapping over his body like heated water or a balmy summer breeze. His body was slowly blooming with warmth from his core as though he'd just taken a large swig of Firewhisky.

He moved to release Hermione, but she clutched onto his arm and he relented.

The undersides of his eyelids were turning red, sparks dancing like music notes. He dared peek his eyes open to see what was happening but was blinded by glaring white light from all directions. He could no longer hear Peregrine, there was only the loud rushing of wind in his ears. In that moment, Harry was positive that his heart had swollen to at least double its normal size. He could feel the enlarged organ pulsing, imprinting its mark somewhere in his throat where it had no business being.

Hermione's fingers were bruising his skin. He doubted his own grip was much better.

Exhaling through his mouth around the heart-shaped mass obstructing his airways, Harry conjured a vision of the time he wanted to be taken to. He imagined Tom's deep-water eyes, his long, thin body, the nuances of his voice, the taste of his lips. He imagined the years before the idea of the Tempus Charm had been planted in Tom's head, he imagined the string of the time loop breaking. Then, unbidden, he saw Peregrine. Long, auburn hair, pitch-black eyes the loping gait of youth sun-tanning in Australia a quill behind an ear the tip of his tongue tucked between his teeth as he consulted paper after paper

The space around him was now impossibly bright his eyes scorched behind closed eyelids the rushing wind around his ears endless was there ever a time before this blindness deafness where was she

 _Gone_

Scrambling empty alone

Hands over ears eyes

Bright

Loud

Burning heat stamping nape of neck

Howls tears _why_

* * *

Silence

* * *

 **After however many chapters, we're finally venturing into plot territory! Wow! Let's hear a "hip hip hooray!"**


End file.
